


Lost and Found

by writeivywrite



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Dubious Consent, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, Homophobic Language, M/M, Mental Health Issues, Threats of Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-14
Updated: 2015-08-11
Packaged: 2018-03-22 23:19:43
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 9
Words: 77,563
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3747298
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/writeivywrite/pseuds/writeivywrite
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Harry foils a mugging and becomes a local hero. The free drinks and perfume-scented letters telling him how brave (and hot) he is are fun at first, but things soon take a sinister turn.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Phlegm

**Author's Note:**

  * For [catholicschoolgirl](https://archiveofourown.org/users/catholicschoolgirl/gifts).



> For sweet Jasmine who has been so patient with me about this. I hope it was worth the wait! Much love to Kristin for the beta, although any mistakes are down to me.
> 
> [Before you start, I feel like I should warn you that this isn't like the stuff I usually write. If you know me, you know my weakness for crime novels. I've wanted to write one about Zarry for the longest time but couldn't find the right idea. Then I read Beneath the Skin by Nicci French and, well, here we are. This has been quite a challenge for me, which is good because it gets me out of my comfort zone, but it's also hella scary because this isn't my usual hurty hurty angst. It's more of a psychological thriller, so except lots of tension and much creepiness...]
> 
> +++

None of this would have happened if it hadn’t been for that watermelon.

It’s Harry’s fault. Everyone told him not to move into his flat. Okay, it was cheap and across the road from his favourite pub, but it meant living above his landlord, which, they all insisted, was a foolish idea. But Harry was desperate. He loved his friend Ed dearly, they’d been inseparable since they were five when, on the first day of school, Ed shared his lunch with him because Harry ate his during morning break, but he couldn’t keep living with him. They spent enough time together as it was. They worked together, hung out together, went on holiday together and, eighteen years after that first day of school, still had lunch together every day. They were like an old married couple, taking it in turns to wash up and going to the supermarket on a Saturday morning.

Harry was twenty-three. Saturday mornings were for hangovers, for strong tea and bacon rolls and holding his breath while he checked his call log to see who he’d drunk dialled the night before. He was too young to be staying in on a Friday night watching The Killing. So yeah, maybe he overlooked the whole living above his landlord thing because he was so keen to move out of Ed’s. Plus he was horny. Really, _really_ horny. Ed was cool about most things. He didn’t complain when Harry forgot to text him back or left him waiting in the pub by himself for half an hour because he was chatting to the woman who sells _The Big Issue_ outside Finsbury Park tube, but he got a bit funny when Harry hooked up with guys. Not because they were guys but because Ed’s a worrier. He worried about everything. He worried that Harry would get an STD (or worse, get his heart broken), worried that every time Harry went to meet someone he’d been chatting to on _Grindr_ that he’d wake up in a bath full of ice with one of his kidneys missing, worried that the guy Harry went out with last week was texting him a little too much.

So no, living above his landlord wasn’t ideal, but Harry had finally made eye contact with the hot guy with the lips tattoo at the pub and, well, his horniness got the better of him. Besides, he reasoned, his landlord was, like, seventy, so it’s not like he was going to be playing Swedish death metal at 2 a.m. Harry was hardly rowdy, either. He was an infant school teacher with a horrible habit of feeding other people’s cats; his landlord would hardly know he was there.

Or so he thought. But then the first time he brought a guy back (not the hot one with the lips tattoo, unfortunately), Harry hadn’t even unbuttoned his shirt before his landlord was banging on the ceiling with a broom. It was only ten o’clock, but Harry was mortified that he’d disturbed him and went down to apologise the next morning. The miserable bastard was having none of it, though, and it was then that Harry realised that he wasn’t complaining about the noise, rather his companion for the night.

‘If I’d known you were that way, I wouldn’t have rented you the flat,’ he said with a sneer that was fierce enough to make Harry take a step back.

Ed was right, he should have moved out then. His landlord wouldn’t have made a fuss, just ripped up his contract and given his deposit back. But Harry’s a stubborn asshole when he wants to be and yes, Ed was right about that as well, he was cutting his nose off to spite his face. But instead of moving out and finding another flat with a landlord who wasn’t a homophobic prick, Harry went out of his way to wind him up – loud parties, louder sex – which, as enjoyable as it was, was exactly what his landlord wanted because he finally had a reason to evict him.

That’s why Harry had the watermelon. He had two months until he had to move out (enough to see him through Christmas, at least) so had something planned every weekend until the end of the year. That night it was a Halloween party. The Rocky Horror Picture Show, to be precise. Maximum gayness. Doing the time warp in fishnets and heels on the bare floorboards would give the old fool a fucking stroke, he hoped. Not literally, of course, but if it forced him up the stairs in his dressing gown to bang on Harry’s front door at 3 a.m., all the better.

So there Harry was, the back of his neck sweating under the weight of his wool scarf as he struggled along Seven Sisters Road with the watermelon in his arms. It was freezing earlier. He felt the first scratch of winter against his cheeks when he left the flat that morning and it made his heart lift at the promise of Christmas, of being at home, his mum laughing, eyes bright, after her second glass of Robin’s famous mulled wine and bickering with Gemma over what music to play during lunch. But because of the watermelon, and the fact that his satchel was heavier than usual thanks to a trip to the party shop at lunchtime to pick up rubber spiders and fake cobwebs to decorate his flat, he could feel his shirt sticking to his back under his coat.

With hindsight, he wasn’t paying attention. The strap of his satchel kept slipping off his shoulder and he’d just remembered that he didn’t have any vodka to spike the watermelon with so would have to stop at the off licence near his flat. That’s why he almost walked straight into a guy coming out of the station.

‘Sorry,’ Harry mumbled as the watermelon wobbled, nearly spilling out his arms before it steadied itself. He let out a breath when it did, knowing that he wouldn’t have been able to catch it, not with gloves on. He should have listened to the shopkeeper when he told him to put it in a plastic bag and sling it over his shoulder like a bowling ball. But he didn’t think. It was almost six o’clock so he only had an hour to get back to the flat and make it – and himself – look presentable, so he just wanted to pay for the watermelon and get out of the shop as quickly as possible. He didn’t usually leave work that late so he didn’t account for rush hour, Seven Sisters Road cluttered with other people as anxious as him to get home. The usually short walk back to his flat was an assault course of pissed off commuters pushing their way past the people dressed as devils and witches who kept stopping in the middle of the street to laugh and swig from bottles of beer.

That’s what he was thinking about when it happened, how he was going to get the watermelon back without dropping it, which is why it took him a moment longer than it should have to realise what was happening. If anything, he was worried about the guy he’d almost walked into, who was heading toward the curb, so his first instinct was to tell him to watch out for the road. He didn’t even see the woman with him, not until she almost knocked the watermelon out of his arms as well. ‘Hey,’ he whined as he struggled to keep hold of it.

When he looked up, he finally saw what was going on: the woman wasn’t with him, she was being dragged by him, connected to the guy by a pink leather handbag. Her handbag, Harry realised as the guy hissed, ‘Let go, bitch.’ But she wouldn’t, her face red and her knuckles white as she held onto it with both hands, her eyes wide as she looked up at Harry as if to say, ‘Help me!’ He froze and in that moment, the guy gave the handbag one last tug which was hard enough to rip it from the woman’s grip and send her flying forward. Her head hit the side of a bin with the most almighty _THWACK_ as she went down and he’ll never forget the sound, hard and soft, all at once. Harry gasped and when he saw the blood blossoming from her temple a second before she landed on the pavement, something in him finally kicked in.

By then, the guy had run off. Harry saw him weaving through the traffic, heading for the other side of the road so did the only thing he could do and hurled the watermelon at him. It struck the guy in the small of his back, propelling him into the side of a bus waiting at the bus stop. Harry gasped again, covering his mouth with his hand as the guy folded into a heap, the strap of the woman’s handbag in his fist. Everyone on the bus stood up and pressed against the windows to see what was going on then started laughing and clapping wildly. ‘You knocked him the fuck out!’ Harry heard someone say. Then he was surrounded, his breath shallowing amid the blur of people slapping him on the back and shaking his hand. But all he could think about was the woman and the sound her head made when it hit the bin. ‘Is she okay?’ He had to raise his voice over the roar, flinching as someone kissed his cheek. ‘Is she okay?’

 

+++

 

The Watermelon Guy. That’s how he’s been known since then. The first time someone called him it, he thought they were taking the piss, but the night after it happened everyone in the pub cheered when he walked in. Even the hot guy with the lips tattoo smiled smoothly and raised his bottle of beer to him, which made Harry almost trip over his feet as he walked towards the bar. He was stunned, especially when Ed, who had been _fucking furious_ at him for doing something so reckless, cracked a smile as people started coming up to Harry to shake his hand, offering to buy him a drink. That was the only thing that calmed Ed down, seeing how proud people were, and he relaxed a little, sharing the free drinks with Harry and laughing at the God-awful photo they’d used of him on the front page of _The Sun_.

Ed had started cutting them out – the newspaper articles – showing them to Harry and the other teachers at school before sticking them in a scrapbook. Now he smiles when someone asks him if he’s proud of his brave, watermelon wielding friend who deserves an OBE according to _The Daily Mail_. But when it happened he flipped his shit completely. It didn’t help that he’d called him from the hospital, but Harry (being Harry) had fallen off the curb in all the commotion outside the tube station and twisted his ankle. The doctor in A &E was concerned that he was in shock and had insisted on calling his next of kin. Harry didn’t want to worry his mum or Robin (naively thinking that he wouldn’t have to tell them what happened, but the 6 o’clock news took care of that). So he asked them to call Ed who rushed into A&E half an hour later, breathless and sweaty faced, more hysterical than Harry’s mum would have ever been.

Ed gave him a lecture on the perils of being a ‘have-a-go hero’ in the cab home and when they got back to Ed’s flat (in case the mugger found out where Harry lived and killed him in his sleep), he fed him chicken soup and made him go to bed like he had the flu.

It was odd sleeping in his old room again. It was exactly as Harry had left it, the sheets, though washed, were the same, the magnolia walls dappled with oily dots from the _Blu Tack_ he’d used to stick up his posters and photographs. Even his copy of Misery still lay on the bedside table, unfinished because he’d been too frightened to persevere, the receipt he’d been using as a bookmark in the same place. It was as if he’d never left and it was kind of comforting. Until Ed started opening the door every half hour to check that he was asleep, or still there.

But Ed calmed down eventually, when the police assured him that the mugger was in custody and even if he wasn’t, would likely be too embarrassed that he was taken out by a watermelon to go after Harry. Now he enjoys it, enjoys the free drinks and seeing Harry on the news and while he pretends not to, he _loves_ it when people comment on his _Instagram_ to tell him that it’s ‘so cool’ that he’s friends with the Watermelon Guy.

He probably shouldn’t admit this, but Harry was a bit worried at first. Looking back on it now, given the hell hole of a school they went to, the ginger kid and the gay kid were always destined to be best friends. But Ed doesn’t see it that way. He says it all the time, that he grew up in Harry’s shadow, that he wouldn’t have had any friends at all if Harry hadn’t taken pity on him. That isn’t true at all and every time he says it, Harry wants to shake him. Especially when he goes on about how easily Harry made friends and how brave he was for coming out when he was fifteen and how he didn’t even have to try to get good grades. But Ed’s as sharp as a whip. He knows everything – _literally everything_ – and he always knows what to say when Harry’s having a shit day. He’s good, somewhere deep in his bones. A good, gentle soul who has a heart of honey and despite being 5’ 5” and less than 100lbs, didn’t hesitate to defend Harry at school when everyone was calling him a faggot. Still, Harry worried that this would be another thing he would add to the list of reasons Harry leads a charmed life. And he does, he knows. He’s lucky. His life isn’t perfect. His parents are divorced, after all, and he’s a teacher at a school that just scraped a _Good_ rating by Ofsted last year so he’s hardly setting the world alight. But he always gets a seat on the tube (even if he gives it up for someone who needs it more two stops later) and finds money in the street and on the rare occasions he can afford to go on holiday, he always gets upgraded. Little things that make his rather ordinary life that little bit less ordinary.

His life _is_ ordinary. He’s just another twentysomething who moved to London with high hopes and now does a job that barely covers the rent. But to Ed, Harry’s always been special. The funny thing is, given that Harry was promoted first even though Ed is always the first to volunteer to do overtime and he spends most his time deflecting the blokes Harry isn’t interested in when they’re out, Ed should hate him. But they balance each other out somehow. Ed carries Harry’s spare key with his own because he’s always forgetting it, and Harry makes him go out on a Friday night and try Korean food. Harry wonders sometimes if that’s what friendship is about – real friendship – not getting drunk every weekend or cheering each other up when they’ve had a shit day, but making the parts of themselves that don’t fit, fit.

The kids at school are as thrilled as Ed by the watermelon thing. Mainly because they now know Harry’s real name, which is like finding sweets to a class full of four and five-year olds who now refuse to call him anything else. And they loved having their photo taken for the local paper, all of them lined up with toothless grins with Harry behind them clutching a watermelon. Harry’s thrilled, too, of course. Thrilled by how many people come up to him in the street to tell him that he’s a hero. He now has almost ten thousand _Twitter_ followers who beg him to follow them back and find him on _Instagram_ to tell him how brave (and hot) he is. Some even write to him, on pretty pink paper that smells like his sister’s perfume, which always makes him laugh. ‘Maybe if they rubbed them with lube you’d be interested,’ Ed always says with a huff and that makes Harry laugh harder because he kind of feels like a fraud.

All he did was chuck a watermelon.

 

+++

 

‘Do you think I stand a chance with the hot guy with the lips tattoo now that I’m famous?’ Harry muses one evening in the pub while they’re waiting for their nachos.

Ed doesn’t miss a beat. ‘Absolutely not.’

Harry pouts, reaching for the martini some guy in a suit sent over. An estate agent with a James Bond complex, Ed said when he did, which pissed him off because Harry’s never had a martini so it ruined the moment a bit. In fairness, it’s kind of nasty but it’s free so he’ll drink it.

‘Seriously, though,’ Ed says, his tone changing, and the muscles in Harry’s shoulders tense because he knows _that tone_. It’s been a month since the watermelon incident so the novelty’s worn off and he’s circled back to worried. ‘You have to be careful.’

‘Of what?’

‘You can’t keep talking to randoms.’

‘Which randoms?’

Ed tilts his head at him. ‘That dude on _Twitter_ for a start.’

‘Which one?’

‘The one you were talking to last night.’

‘We were talking about Elf!’

‘So?’ Harry doesn’t mean to laugh but even for Ed, this is some next level anxiety. He’s pretty sure internet axe murders don’t strike up conversations about Christmas films.

Ed looks at him like he’s lost his mind. ‘Who is he?’

‘I don’t know.’

He points his bottle of beer at him and nods smugly. ‘Exactly!’

‘Do you think he wants my kidneys?’

‘It’s not funny.’

‘It kind of is.’

‘It’s not. People are mental.’

When Ed taps his temple with his finger, Harry sips his martini. ‘Some people are.’

He doesn’t take the bait. ‘You have to be careful, Haz.’

‘I am careful.’

‘No you’re not! You used to be-’ Harry’s glad Ed doesn’t finish the thought, stopping to smile at the waitress who plops a plate of nachos down on the table between them then pushes her way back through the crowded pub towards the bar. It’s quiz night so the place is heaving, everyone standing eyeing the full tables trying to work out who’s about to finish their drink and go and who’s staying for the duration. This is why Ed insists they get there early.

‘Now you talk to anyone,’ he adds when they’re alone again.

‘Not anyone,’ Harry insists, reaching for a slice of jalapeño and popping it in his mouth.

‘You talk to stray cats.’

‘They talk to me first.’

‘I’m being serious!’ Ed raises his voice. Actually it’s more of a frustrated whine because Harry isn’t taking him seriously. ‘I don’t want anything to happen to you.’

He doesn’t say it but the _again_ hangs over his head like the blade of a guillotine.

‘Nothing’s going to happen to me, Ed.’

‘Your face is everywhere at the moment.’

‘So?’ Harry knows what he’s getting at and can’t look at him.

But he doesn’t say that either and the muscles in Harry’s shoulders relax.

‘What if the mugger gets off and comes after you. I read a book about a woman who-’

Harry raises his hand to stop him before he tells another gruesome story about someone being stalked and brutally murdered. ‘Dude, I love you, but you need to lay off the Jo Nesbø. Read a happy book every once in a while. Seriously. Just try it. I hear _Eat, Pray, Love_ is good.’

‘I’d rather pull out my pubic hair with a pair of tweezers and knit myself a scarf!’

‘Well all these books about serial killers are making you paranoid.’

Ed looks horrified. ‘I am not paranoid!’

‘You thought someone was following us around _Sainsbury’s_ last week!’

‘They were! That woman, remember? She wanted your autograph.’

They’re yelling now, partly because it’s after nine o’clock so the music in the pub’s louder, but mostly because, much like his conversations with his sister, he and Ed always end up yelling at each other, especially when Harry won’t do as he’s told.

‘Stop worrying,’ Harry tells him, peeling a nacho from the cheesy pile. ‘This will blow over in a couple of weeks and I can go back to wiping kids noses all day and walking around _Sainsbury’s_ without people asking me to pose for photos with a watermelon.’

‘Yeah that will stop,’ Ed nods solemnly, ‘but the true nutters will persevere.’

‘Which nutters?’

‘The ones writing you letters.’

‘Them?’ Harry chuckles. ‘They’re harmless.’

‘It’s 2015, Haz. Why are they sending you letters when they can tweet you?’

‘I don’t know, but I like it. It’s kind of old fashioned.’ He shrugs. ‘Besides, none of them know where I live. They send them via whatever newspaper they’ve seen me in.’

‘Harry, it’s weird. I saw a film once-’

Mercifully, Harry’s phone rings before he can finish.

‘Hello?’ he says, turning away from the jukebox in the corner of the pub, as if that will help him hear over the Kate Tempest track that’s playing. It doesn’t, so he stands up, leaving Ed alone with the nachos as he slides between the people waiting to be served at the bar towards the door. It’s dark now but outside is ablaze, the row of shops across the road lit up like the Vegas strip, yellow and red and bright, bright white. The chicken shop is already full, two girls in impossibly high heels sharing a bag of chips on the pavement outside as they wait for the bus.

‘Hello?’ he says again but it’s not much quieter out there, he can still hear Kate Tempest singing about going around in circles every time someone opens the door. So he tries moving away from the group of friends huddled outside the pub, shivering and giggling as they smoke. He doesn’t know how they can do it, he’s only been outside thirty seconds and can already feel a rash of goose pimples prickling his skin.

‘Can you hear me?’ It’s so cold that his breath puffs out of him in a thick cloud so he looks like one of the smokers. ‘Let me move down the road a bit.’

When he does, the din from the pub softens enough to allow him to hear someone say his name. No, he tells himself, his whole body going rigid as he looks across the road at the door to his flat, ready to drop his phone and run. No. It can’t be. He’s imagining it – he’s imagining it – and suddenly he’s back in Manchester, hearing footsteps following him down the street. But his heart is banging – actually _banging_ – so hard it makes his eyes swim out of focus, the shops across the road now loud streaks of yellow and red and bright, bright white.

‘Harry, it’s me.’

Him.

‘Harry, are you there?’

He is, but he isn’t, everything a blur – the shops, the girls waiting at the bus stop, the door to his flat, suddenly out of reach – like someone’s holding his head under water.

‘Harry, say something.’

‘How did you get this number?’ he says at last, his hand shaking as he tries to keep a grip on his phone, his fingers already aching from the effort.

‘I saw you in the paper.’

 _Which one?_ he thinks, but the words catch in his throat.

‘Your hair looks good long. It suits you. I miss the curls, though.’

 _Because it was tied back. It’s still curly_.

‘And I like the new tattoo, the mermaid. Fitting. You never could be tamed, could you?’

Harry tried to catch his breath but can't.

‘How's your ankle?’

‘How did you get this number?’ he asks again, the words wobbling this time.

‘We need to talk.’

Every muscle in Harry’s body tenses all at once. ‘About what?’

‘About us.’

‘There is no us.’ He spits it out – _us_ – like he can’t stand the word in his mouth.

‘Harry.’

He can hear the lightness in his voice, the _Oh don’t be so dramatic, Harry_ and has to ball his other hand into a fist so his nails cut into the firm flesh of his palm otherwise he’s going to break down right here on the pavement, fall to his knees and cry because this is over.

He thought this was over.

‘Don’t be like that, Harry,’ he coos and it’s so affectionate it turns his stomach. He should hang up. Why hasn’t he hung up? He doesn’t have to talk to him, but this is what he does. He’s like a sudden summer shower, catching him off guard, making him want to run.

But then, somewhere in the dark of his panic, a flare of courage. ‘And there never was.’

He isn’t brave enough to say his name, as if that will make this more real if he does, make this more than a nuisance phone call, a passing annoyance on an otherwise enjoyable Sunday night. The blow lands because there’s a moment of silence before he changes tack.

‘Meet me.’

‘Why the fuck would I want to meet you?’ Harry laughs, loud and bitter, then curses himself for giving him the satisfaction of letting him know that he’s getting to him.

‘You don’t have to want to, you just have to do it.’

That makes Harry shiver and he goes from wanting to tell him to fuck off, tell him that he’s mad, that he needs fucking help, to being very, very scared.

 _I can’t do this again_ , he almost says, but manages to swallow it back.

‘Just meet me.’

 _I can’t do this again_.

‘Harry, I miss you.’

He hangs up then and his instinct is to throw his phone into the nearest bin and run. But he’s already done that. He’s changed his number and his email and his twitter and moved out of Manchester, moved to a city where no one talks to their neighbours, where they step over homeless people so they can buy a coffee. Somewhere no one gives a fuck about him.

Where he won’t be found.

Ed’s right, he realises then, panic spilling through him, cold and quick, like someone’s thrown a cup of ice under his t-shirt, he’s been far too blasé about this watermelon thing. But it’s been two years and Harry thought… Actually, maybe he wasn’t thinking at all, too swept up by all the free drinks and the thrill of having his photo in the newspaper, because if he’d thought about it for a second, he would have realised how stupid he was being.

 

+++

 

Harry’s legs shake as he walks back inside, the pub suddenly too loud, too full. The quiz is about to start and he wants to go, wants to go back to Ed’s flat where he’ll be safe, to sleep in his old bed, the click as the radiators warm up lulling him to sleep. But he doesn’t want to worry Ed, so sits down like nothing is wrong and reaches for a nacho.

Ed sees right through him, though. ‘What’s wrong?’

‘Nothing.’ He avoids meeting his gaze, licking some guacamole off his thumb.

‘Who was that?’

‘No one.’

‘Haz?’

‘No one.’ He was going for firm but it comes out petulant, which doesn’t help at all.

‘Tell me.’

He looks so worried, the skin between his eyebrows pinched. They’re so blonde that they look almost invisible in the bright light of the pub. It reminds him of that time Joe Douglas lost a bet at school and had to shave his off. They never did grow back properly.

Harry almost reminds him of the story but it isn’t the time.

‘Fine.’ He exhales through his nose. ‘Promise not to say I told you so?’

‘No.’

Well, at least he’s honest.

‘It was Rory.’

His name sounds much bigger than it is, like it’s fifty-letters long and it’s taken all his breath to say it. Harry lifts his eyelashes then, waiting for him to react, but he’s weirdly calm.

Harry doesn’t like it.

‘Say something.’

Ed’s jaw clenches. ‘Why did you answer it?’

‘I didn’t check.’ He was too busy trying to avoid another of his stalker stories.

‘Is that why you went outside?’

‘No!’ Harry is appalled. ‘I couldn’t hear anything in here.’

‘How did he get your new number?’

‘I don’t know.’ He clearly doesn’t believe him so he says it again, ‘ _I don’t know_.’

Ed looks down the neck of his beer bottle then puts it to his lips and drains it. Harry knows that he should shut up but he can’t stand the silence.

It’s worse than being yelled at.

‘He wants to meet up.’

Ed looks at him then. ‘Are you going to?’

‘Of course not!’

Ed doesn’t say anything, just continues to look across the small table at him and the tension is unbearable. A Caribou song is playing and the beat is like a piano damper striking his spine. He feels sick, the smell of beer and sweat and the cheese congealing on what’s left of the nachos suddenly unbearable. He pushes the plate away as he waits for Ed to say something, but when he doesn’t, panic licks at his palms as he makes himself look at him.

He raises his chin defiantly. ‘I’m not, Ed!’

He licks his lips and puts the empty beer bottle down. ‘What are you going to do?’

‘What I always do when he does this: change my number and move on.’

Ed nods and if it was anyone else, that would be it, but it’s Ed and he knows him well enough to know it isn’t. Harry can almost see the cogs and wheels turning as he takes it all in until he finally says it, the thing they’ve been avoiding since he threw that watermelon.

‘I think you should move back in, Harry.’

He wants to take the words and push them back into his mouth, one by one, because he can’t deal with this right now. He can’t deal with Rory and this on the same night.

But he doesn’t have to say it, when he sighs, his shoulders slumping, Ed knows and interrupts before he can object. ‘You’re going to be evicted in a month, Harry.’

‘I’m painfully aware of that fact.’

‘Do you know how hard it’s going to be to find somewhere when they find out you were evicted from your last place?’

‘They won’t find out.’

‘Of course they will! They’ll ask for a reference from your previous landlord.’

‘I’ll say that I was living with you.’

‘Surely it would be easier to just _live with me_?’

‘Ed-’

He interrupts him again. ‘Just think about it, okay?’

‘Fine.’ Harry reaches for his martini and knocks the rest back in one. It’s fucking awful but he can feel the numbness moving from his throat to his chest, which is exactly what he needs, but before he can put the glass down, he’s aware of someone next to him.

‘Can I get you another?’

Harry’s not in the mood, but when he looks up, the hot guy with the lips tattoo is standing over him and just like that, his despair gives way to outright joy.

‘Hey,’ Harry manages, his voice shivering as he says it.

If the guy notices, he doesn’t say anything. ‘Hey,’ he says back, tugging on the tuft of hair under his bottom lip as he smiles loosely. ‘You’re the Watermelon Guy, right?’

 

+++

 

His name is Zayn and in the few moments it takes for him to find a stool and join them, Harry has forgotten about Ed, about Rory, about _everything_ but the sweet sweep of Zayn’s bottom lip which Harry wants to press his thumb against. He buys them both a drink, which is enough to appease Ed who relaxes a little, especially when Zayn comments on his Serial t-shirt. With that, he’s equally besotted, asking Zayn if he knew about the new podcast, which he does, so Ed has actual real life heart eyes. Within a few minutes they’re engrossed in a conversation about John Wayne Gacy – of all things – which Harry has stopped trying to join in with since he said, ‘You mean the Sufjan Stevens song?’ and Ed glared at him as if to say, _Stop embarrassing me_.

John Wayne Gacy’s a serial killer, apparently, which Harry should have known given that’s all Ed has talked about – serial killers – since he saw Silence of the Lambs when he was thirteen. Harry would never tell him, but it’s oddly endearing that quiet, sweet Ed who has an ISA and a pension and _always_ recycles is so fascinated by stories of horrific murders. But that’s what Harry loves about him, as lovely as he is, he has a dark side. So Harry just listens to them. To Zayn, actually, who has the softest voice, which he wasn’t expecting given his Doc Martens and tableau of tattoos. He’s from Bradford, which Harry thought was a bit of a shithole until Zayn told him that’s where he’s from. Now he wants to know everything about it – where he grew up, where he went to school, where he had his first kiss – but Ed is going on about how John Wayne Gacy buried his victims in the crawl space of his home, which is the least sexy thing ever.

‘Is that the time?’ Harry looks at his bare wrist. ‘Don’t you have to go, Ed?’

He looks bewildered then flushes when he realises what Harry is saying.

‘Oh yes. I’d better go. I have a load of marking to do for school tomorrow.’

‘Okay see ya.’ Harry waves, letting him know not to bother finishing his drink.

‘Subtle.’ Zayn chuckles as he scurries off, but when Harry smiles sweetly, clearly unrepentant, he shakes his head. ‘At least you didn’t throw a watermelon at him.’

 

+++

 

Ed leaves in such a hurry that he forgets his coat. When he comes back, Harry feels bad for trying to get rid of him. Zayn must do as well, because he pats the stool he was sitting on. ‘Come on,’ he says with a smile. ‘The quiz is about to start and three heads are better than one.’

Ed hesitates then looks at Harry who rolls his eyes. ‘Sit down.’ He thumbs at the empty stool. ‘I’m not losing again this week. You know how shit I am at geography.’

Ed raises his eyebrows at Zayn. ‘The blue parts on the map are the land, apparently.’

‘Hey!’ Harry tries to kick him but he doesn’t notice as Zayn grins and points at him.

‘Arrested Development!’

‘Yes!’ Ed sits down, his coat still in his hand. ‘I love that show!’

Harry sighs and finishes his drink as he realises that he’s lost them again.

 

+++

 

Thinking about it, doing the pub quiz is a great way to break the ice but it’s a risk, letting Zayn see how fiercely competitive he is so early on. Harry tries to keep a lid on it, especially when he sees a guy at the next table using his phone. It takes everything in him not to call him out, but to his delight, Zayn does, yelling, ‘Cheat!’ and pointing at the table. Everyone in the pub gasps theatrically as the quiz master, a drag queen called Cameron Diazepam, saunters over tutting into the mic. ‘I’m texting my girlfriend to let her know that I’m going to be late!’ the guy insists, holding his phone up. Cameron takes it from him and confirms that’s what he’s doing but Zayn shakes his head. ‘Check Safari!’ She does and gasps, her bubble-gum coloured ringlets shivering as she looks around the pub. ‘What is this, young man? Planning a trip to Peru?’

‘Hey! Wasn’t the last question the capital of Peru?’

Cameron puts her hand on her hip and arches a painted eyebrow. ‘It certainly was!’

The whole pub pantomime hisses, chanting ‘Cheat! Cheat! Cheat!’ as Cameron wags her finger at the guy. ‘Turns out you won’t be late home after all.’ She pauses for dramatic effect. ‘Disqualified!’ Everyone cheers as the other people on the guy’s team throw their hands up. One of them chucks a beermat at him. Zayn claps gleefully, obviously thrilled, and when he turns to grin at Harry, his nose wrinkling, it’s like being pushed off a fucking cliff.

 

+++

 

They win and Harry is obnoxious, doing the Chandler dance while the other teams throw their pens at him. The prize is a bottle of champagne which the three of them share until they’re barking with laughter and teasing Zayn for thinking that a phlebotomist extracted phlegm. A perfectly reasonable assumption, Harry supposes, but it’s still the cutest thing he’s ever heard.

‘All right, all right.’ Zayn shakes his head with an exaggerated sigh, pinching Harry’s thigh under the table. Harry squeals when he does, his knee jumping up and almost knocking their glasses over then retaliates with a punch. Zayn pretends to be hurt, clutching his side, but his other hand lingers on Harry’s thigh, and it’s nothing, he’s not groping him or anything, just tracing the inside seam of Harry’s jeans with his finger, but it’s so fucking intimate that Harry’s terrified to move in case he stops. He doesn’t, just licks his lips as he tops up Harry’s glass.

‘You trying to get me liquored up?’ he asks with a filthy smirk.

Zayn shrugs elegantly and puts the bottle back on the table.

Ed – perceptive, as always – senses the sudden change in atmosphere as Harry and Zayn look at each other for a moment longer than is comfortable and puts his hands up.

‘I really do have to go now. I have a shitload of marking to do.’

Zayn looks disappointed, taking his hand away from Harry’s thigh. ‘Stay for one more.’

‘I’d better not.’

‘But the bottle’s almost finished.’

‘I’m sure Haz can help with that.’

Ed looks at Harry with a knowing smile, which he returns, raising his glass. He rarely approves of the guys Harry hooks up with, so his smile is a little clumsier when Ed tells him that he’ll see him tomorrow and saunters off, leaving Harry and Zayn alone, at last.

 

+++

 

Ed forgets his coat again and when Zayn goes after him, Harry is struck by a terrible thought: what if it’s Ed he likes? His cheeks burn, but before he can berate himself for being so fucking obtuse, Zayn’s back and his heart throws itself against his ribs.

‘I need a smoke,’ he tells Harry, nodding towards the door.

‘I’ll wait here,’ he says, reaching for the champagne bottle. Usually that would be a deal breaker – he can’t stand the smell of smoke – but for Zayn he’ll make an exception.

‘I’m not going to actually smoke, Harry.’

It takes him a minute, but when he realises what Zayn is saying, he bites his bottom lip as Zayn takes his hand and leads towards the door. And that’s so intimate as well, the way their fingers thread together and his whole arm shivers when their palms touch, that Harry feels light headed as Zayn tugs him out into the cold. Then he feels a rush of goose pimples again, but for an entirely different reason this time, Zayn smiling over his shoulder at him as he walks over to the corner of the pub and stops underneath one of the hanging baskets.

Now the quiz is over, it’s not as busy, the pavement empty except for a bloke smoking by himself. Not that Harry cares, all he can think about is Zayn’s hand in his and the space closing between them as he turns to face him. Harry doesn’t know whether it’s nerves or the cheap champagne but he blurts ‘Phlegm!’ out suddenly then laughs and covers his mouth with his hand because it’s quite possibly the least sexy thing that he could have said at that moment. ‘Shut the fuck up,’ Zayn hisses, nudging him with his nose. Then he tilts his head and there’s suddenly no space between them at all as he presses his mouth to his. Harry’s cheeks flush at the _hmmmm_ that escapes his lips when he does, which he hopes Zayn can’t see as he pulls back to look at him. He touches his cheek with his thumb, as if he knows, and when Harry does the same, his eyelashes flutter when he feels that Zayn’s cheek's hot as well.

‘Hey,’ he breathes, thumb sweeping up Harry’s cheekbone.

‘Hey,’ Harry says back with a lopsided grin, his hand slipping under the collar of Zayn’s black shirt to cup his neck as if he might suddenly fly away if he doesn’t hold on.

Zayn nudges him with his nose again and Harry tilts his head and meets him halfway this time, his lips parting as soon as they touch Zayn’s. And it’s so natural that it makes Harry’s legs a little weaker because he’s never felt that with anyone before, not even Rory, and he loved Rory before he even understood what love is. It’s not chemistry, not lust or longing or even mutual attraction, it’s something more magical than that, something that makes every hair on his body bristle and his heart beat as if to say, Here you are.

Here you are.

 

+++

 

Harry doesn’t invite him back to the flat, doesn’t even waggle his eyebrows and say, ‘You hopefully!’ when Zayn asks him what he’s doing tomorrow night. It’s not just that he’s terrified that he’s going to fuck it up, it’s that when Zayn hands him his phone and tells him to add his number, he feels the deepest most giddying sense of relief, like there’s no rush.

Like there’s time.

+++

 

Harry’s still smiling when he gets back to the flat. He grabs his post off the shelf over the radiator then heads up the stairs, making sure he stomps in case his landlord is asleep. Karma is swift, though, because when he opens the front door, there’s an envelope on the doormat. Harry groans as he reaches down for it, wondering what the bastard wants now. He opens it with his door key then tosses them on the table in the kitchen before he pads towards the bedroom with a yawn. He left the light on, so he sees straight away that there’s no letterhead so it isn’t from his landlord, just a plain white piece of paper that says:

 

_EVERYONE THINKS YOU’RE A HERO, HARRY, BUT I KNOW THE REAL YOU._

_ONE DAY I’LL CUT YOU OPEN AND SHOW THE WORLD THAT YOU HAVE NO HEART._

 


	2. 997 Steps

Harry reads the letter thirteen times then has to read it once more. Each time he reads it, the words feel a little bigger – a little sharper – splinters that sink so deep into his skin that he’s sure he can feel the pull of them as he folds the letter once, then again. He can’t help but think of Rory then, smiling as he makes the three neat folds so it fits in the envelope, still smiling as he licks the back of it, the tip of his tongue as quick and sharp as the words themselves. _Just put it back in the envelope_ , he tells himself, his hands shaking so much that he tears the corner in his haste to shove it back inside. When he does he lets go of a breath, as though the flimsy brown paper will contain it somehow, a box he can lock and leave in the back of a kitchen cupboard with the cans of soup his mother bought him when he moved in.

As soon as he thinks of his mother, his instinct is to call her. Then it’s all he can think about, if she’s okay, if something’s happened to her, if she needs help and he’s hundreds of miles away in London, unable to do anything about it. The thought makes him grab the edge of the kitchen counter to steady himself, panic plucking at his nerves until he hears the familiar thrum of his heart in his ears getting quicker, faster, faster, faster. But when he reaches into the back pocket of his jeans for his phone, he realises that it’s almost midnight and stops himself.

 _This is progress_ , he tells himself as he puts the envelope on the kitchen table. _This is better_. Two years ago he wouldn’t have even noticed the time, just called in a panic and worried her sick. _This is better_ , he tells himself, walking towards the front door. _I am better_. He thinks about what Cath would say if she saw him. _I’m just going to check the door once_. _It’s perfectly reasonable to check the door is locked after getting home to find a letter from Rory._

 _This is normal_.

 _I am normal_.

It’s locked, of course. He only lets himself test it once before he reaches into his pocket and finds his keys. He hasn’t used the dead lock for over a year, the key reassuringly stiff as he turns it, but that’s okay too because he should use the dead lock, especially in an area like this.

He has to wash his hands afterwards, in the kitchen sink, over the dirty mug and plate from breakfast that morning. He has to use a palm full of washing up liquid to get rid of the greasy smell of metal, like he’s been playing with a two-pence coin, and when he’s done, they’re stinging, his skin smelling faintly of lemon. That’s better, he tells himself as he heads towards the bedroom, careful not to look at the torn envelope sitting innocuously on the kitchen table. But it isn’t better. He can still feel something tugging at him, like a sail on a windy day, ropes tight, ready to snap. So he takes his medication. It’s been nearly a year since he did that too and he feels a little weaker – a little pathetic – as he waits for the relief he already knows isn’t coming. Still he tries, tries to take a shower until all of his skin is stinging, then goes to bed and tries to sleep, his wet hair making the pillow feel clammy against his cheek.

But he can’t stop thinking about the letter, about the precisely typed words and those three neat folds. He rolls over to face the window, listening to the chatter rising up from the street below. The chicken shop will be closing soon, he can hear the staff persuading the last of the stragglers to leave with leftover chips so they can go home. There’s someone chucking bags of rubbish on the curb and that’s the last he’ll hear for a couple of hours, he knows, before he’s woken by the gobble and growl of the rubbish truck as the bin men scoop them up before the newsagent opens and the people on earlies head out to work.

It used to keep him awake when he first moved to London, the noise. Holmes Chapel is so quiet, just the soft snuffle of Robin snoring or Dusty whimpering as the cat next door sits in the garden. Now he can’t sleep without it, the drunks and bin men and police sirens.

It’s kind of soothing.

Harry rolls onto his back, trying to find the water stain on the ceiling in the dark. He can’t find it, so he turns on the lamp on the bedside table, his chest relaxing when he sees it. It used to be the shape of Italy, even had a little boot, but now it’s much wider, stretching across the ceiling so it looks more like Russia. Ed told him to complain to his landlord, convinced that the ceiling was about to cave in, but Harry hasn’t bothered because the less contact he has with the miserable bastard, the better. Plus he doesn’t want him in his flat, sneering at his stuff and going through his drawers. Cath says he’s paranoid. Maybe he is, but he’s only here for another month so if the ceiling does cave in, so be it.

Hopefully he’ll be asleep when it happens.

He turns the light off but it doesn’t help. Closing his eyes doesn’t help either, so before he can tell himself not to, he’s turning the lamp on again and kicking the duvet off. The flat is tiny, so he walks across the living room and into the kitchen in a few quick steps. He snatches the envelope off the table and walks over to the bin, throwing it in and making sure the lid is closed. Then he checks the front door again – just once – and washes his hands – just once – and heads back to the bedroom. It helps but a few minutes after getting back into bed, he’s turning the lamp on and heading into the living room again. He refuses to give Rory the satisfaction of keeping him awake like this, so takes the letter out of the bin and puts it back on the table then checks the door and washes his hands before heading back to the bedroom.

He does what Cath told him to do when this happens, he closes his eyes and takes a deep breath, focusing on the water stain on the ceiling and thinks about something else, thinks about that time he and Ed went camping, about how quiet it was, just the sound of the fire dying outside their tent and the trees swishing in the wind. But it’s too late. His mouth is dry and his chest is tight, like when he was little and Gemma used to sit on him until he agreed that she was the queen of everything. _What would Cath say?_ he thinks, head swimming – literally _swimming_ , like it’s heading for the shore, trying to get away from the rest of his body – so it takes a few moments for the words to bubble up to the surface.

Confront it. She’d want Harry to confront his fear, see that nothing bad is going to happen. So he turns the lamp on and pads back into the living room. He takes the letter off the table and looks at it, looks at the torn brown envelope and his name written in capital letters. _It’s just a piece of paper_ , he tells himself. _It can’t hurt me_. He goes to throw it in the bin again, but he can’t do it, pulling a chair out from the kitchen table instead. His legs are shivering as he steps on it, putting the envelope on top of one of the cupboards, somewhere he won’t see it but will find it when he needs to, when Rory’s telling him that he’s being melodramatic.

That it’s all in his head.

He needs to call his mother. Needs not wants, _needs_ , like he needs fucking air. The urge is distracting, thoughts that something horrible has happened to her, that Rory has broken into her house, that she and Robin are lying in bed, the white sheets wet with blood, making him shudder. He tries to shake them off, distracting himself by checking the door again.

 _It’s okay_ , he tells himself as he washes his hands in the kitchen sink. _She’s okay_. He washes them until they’re raw this time, his skin painfully tight as he balls them into fists in an effort to quell the tremor of panic rippling through him. It doesn’t help, though, his whole body shuddering now and his heart beating so hard he can see spots, bright blisters of light that make him reach for the edge of the counter again. This is just the beginning, he knows. In a few minutes he won’t be able to stand up, won’t be able to breathe. He’ll have to lie on the kitchen floor until it passes or he passes out, whichever comes first.

But as he’s about to sink to the floor, he stops himself. That feels like progress as well, the way he doesn’t let himself give in to it and forces himself to walk the few steps into the living room. He’s so weak that it’s an effort to move the coffee table, but he does it, and he manages the short walk into the bedroom. He even remembers where he left his yoga mat. When he slips it under his arm, he feels a bit steadier, his legs less wobbly as he walks back into the living room and rolls the mat out onto the worn carpet.

He wonders what Cath would think if she saw him. Two years ago, he would have been too far gone by now to remember what she’d told him to do when this happens. But he leaves his phone in the bedroom and sits crossed legged on the yoga mat, taking a deep, long breath.

 _It’s okay_.

 _I’m okay_.

When he opens his eyes again, he glances at the clock on the oven to find that it’s 03:12. He has less than four hours before he has to get up for work, but he tries not to think about that. Instead he focuses on his breathing – in through his nose, out through his mouth, in through his nose, out through his mouth, in through his nose, out through his mouth – until he can’t hear anything at all. Not the drip drip drip of the tap in the kitchen or the tick tick tick of the alarm clock on his bedside table. Until all he can hear is his heart in his ears and tells himself to be grateful, that his heart is working and his lungs are opening and he is alive.

So alive.

 

+++

 

He does three rounds of the sequence his yoga teacher worked out for him, holding each pose for a little longer each round as he waits for the panic to ease. He tried to describe it to Ed once, what this feels like, but he didn’t want to worry him so he said that it was like turning over an exam paper and not recognising any of the questions because that was the only analogy he could think of that Ed would be able to relate to. He didn’t tell him that it’s much worse than that, that it’s like being in a tunnel that gets narrower and narrower until he can’t stand up, can’t breathe, can’t see the end of it, only darkness. Nothing but darkness.

That it kind of feels like dying.

The sequences don’t help. So he tidies up a little, gathering up the magazines and half-read newspapers from the kitchen table and washing his mug and plate from breakfast. When he’s done, he checks the front door and washes his hands, avoiding the sore cracks that have opened in his knuckles, like tiny paper cuts, from the too-harsh _Fairy Liquid_ , and heads into the bedroom. His sister got him some scented candles from Camden Market when he moved in, to help him sleep, apparently. Lavender and chamomile and sandalwood (one manly one, she said, which made him laugh). He’s not used them – hasn’t needed to – but he’s willing to give them a go. He dots them around the living room and goes back to his yoga mat, doing the rounds again.

By the time he’s done, it’s 7 a.m.. He tells himself that he’s fine, that he just needs to take a shower and go to work and he’ll be fine. But as he walks through the bedroom towards the bathroom, he sees his phone on the bedside table and before he can tell himself not to, he reaches for it and calls his mother. He’s weak with disappointment when he does – he was doing so well – his stomach clenching as he imagines the disappointed look on Cath’s face.

 _Relapse_.

The word feels huge (almost as big as Rory’s name) and lodges itself in his throat so he can’t catch his breath. A relapse, that’s what this is. He’s fallen off the wagon like an alcoholic who hasn’t had a drink for a year and just knocked back half a bottle of _Jack_. But he needs to hear her voice, needs to know that she’s okay, that nothing’s happened to her.

He won’t be able to leave the flat until he does.

As soon as she answers, he waits to feel better but doesn’t.

‘Morning!’ he says brightly. Too brightly.

There’s a long moment of silence then she says, ‘Are you okay, Harry?’

Her tone is careful, the way she talked to him when he was a five and he threatened to jump off the top of the slide at the park. She knows, Harry thinks, putting his hand in his hair and fisting it so tightly it brings tears to his eyes. She knows that he’s doing it again.

He’s doing it again.

‘Yeah. Fine,’ he says, trying to sound nonchalant and failing miserably.

‘What’s wrong, darling?’

‘Nothing. I was just checking that you were okay, Mum.’

He doesn’t need to say anymore.

‘I’m fine, Harry. Robin is too. Do you need to talk to him?’

‘It’s all right. I’ve got to get to work,’ he says, chewing on the corner of his mouth.

‘Call Cath, Harry. It’s not too early. She gave you her mobile number, right?’

‘Okay.’ He nods even though she can’t see him. ‘Love you.’

He doesn’t call Cath. He should, but he calls Gemma who doesn’t answer until just before it goes to voicemail, which is enough time to make Harry frantic, sure that something’s happened to her. He’s imagining her lying in a ditch somewhere when she answers, breathless from running out of the shower. She’s not mad, though, and that makes it worse, especially when she tells him to call Cath as well. He could – his mum’s right, he does have her mobile number – but he can’t, not until he knows that Ed is okay, too. He answers on the second ring and, in a rare moment of denseness (probably because it’s Monday morning and he’s hunger), he doesn’t question Harry’s motives for calling so early. He asks if Harry needs a lift, which he does because he’s running late, but he refuses, reasoning that the walk will clear his head.

When Ed tells him that he’ll see him at school and hangs up, Harry takes a deep breath and waits for his nerves to settle. But they don’t, something still gnawing at him. So he runs through the list of names in his head again and realises that there’s one more on it.

‘Hello, stranger.’

If Zayn’s surprised to hear from him he doesn’t show it. Harry still feels like a fool, the panic building again as he tries to think of a reason for calling him that doesn’t make him sound like a fucking lunatic. He can’t think of one, though, because there isn’t one. Only a fucking lunatic would call someone they met 12-hours ago to check they’re not dead.

‘Sorry.’ Harry covers his eyes with his hand, mortified. ‘It’s early.’

‘It’s okay.’

He opens his fingers and peers through them like he’s watching a scary film. ‘Yeah?’

‘I was thinking about you, too.’

He says it so softly that Harry’s shoulders finally fall.

 

+++

 

By the time he’s finished checking the front door, he leaves the flat half an hour later than he usually does. Then, as if he isn’t late enough at it is, he takes the long way to school, along Seven Sisters Road. He usually goes down the side streets, which is much quicker, but they’re too quiet. Here he’s safe, walking towards the upcoming traffic so he can flag a car down if he needs to. He makes sure he walks down the middle of the pavement, not too close to the curb but not too close to the shop doorways, either. It helps to count each step – one, two, three, four, stop to let the kid on a scooter pass, five, six, seven. He used to do this all the time when he first moved to London. It was the only way he could soothe his anxiety – counting steps – because it’s always the same. 997 steps between his front door and school.

When he finally reaches the gates, Mrs Nadel – Sophia’s mother – is approaching from the other side, pushing a buggy. Sophia only has one mitten on and the green pom pom on her woolly hat bobs with each step as she walks towards him, obediently holding onto the buggy and waving madly with her mitten-free hand. He nods but doesn’t stop or he’ll lose count and if he loses count, he’ll have to start again. He’s late enough as it is, so late that he’s missed most of the Monday morning meeting and has to stand at the back. Ed looks relieved when he sees him, flashing Harry a smile then rolling his eyes as Nancy starts about no one washing their cups up in the staff room despite the sign she put on the fridge.

Harry feels himself drifting off and out of the room, out, out, like a red balloon caught in a breeze. He can hear the kids in the playground, running around and squealing despite the bitter cold. They sound so happy that he wishes he was outside with them, playing double Dutch and swapping what they don’t want from their lunch boxes, apples and bananas that none of the other kids want either, holding onto their cartons of _Ribena_ like they’re made of gold. Then he hears someone wail and sighs. It will take him ten minutes to get them to calm down enough to sit down, then another ten to wipe their noses. He thinks of the plastic bottle of hand sanitiser in the drawer of his desk and makes himself take a deep breath.

Harry is the first out of the meeting when the bell rings, losing himself in the crush of the corridor as he heads towards his classroom. Ed still finds him, though, which he was hoping to avoid because he’s too tired to pretend that nothing’s wrong. Besides, he can’t get into it now, not when they’re surrounded by a hundred fidgety kids trying to get to class as well.

He manages a smile, though. ‘All right, bro?’

‘How was last night?’ he asks with a lascivious wink.

‘Fill you in at break?’ Harry says, when they get to the bottom of the stairs.

‘Cool. See you in a bit.’

Then he’s gone and it takes so long for him to summon the will to climb the stairs that Harry finds himself suddenly alone in the deserted corridor.

 

+++

 

Harry feels better when he’s in his classroom. They’re sitting at their desks, which is something, but it’s still chaos, all of them chattering at once, their little legs kicking and their cheeks red from being out in the cold. ‘Morning, Harry,’ they sing as he walks in and he should correct them, but it’s the first time he’s smiled that morning.

‘Morning, class,’ he says and he’s relieved to hear that his voice sounds a little steadier. It steadies him too, the change in his pocket jiggling as he shrugs off his coat and hangs it on the back of his chair. ‘Good weekend?’ he asks, which is the class’ cue to start chattering again, Harry half-hearing their stories as he unwinds his scarf. That calms him down as well, how normal it is. Hagos’ voice is the loudest, as usual, as she tells him something about a wedding and gold shoes, forcing Oskar to yell over her about dressing up as Captain America for Halloween.

It’s exactly what he needs. Twenty-six 5-year olds trying to get his attention at once.

He’s safe now. His classroom is safe. The metal framed windows are painted shut and the heavy door closes with a reassuring _CLUNK_. He – Rory – has never been here. He doesn’t know which classroom is Harry’s, doesn’t know about the cereal bars he keeps in the drawer of his desk for when he misses breakfast and the pack of Frozen stickers Puja gave him because he helped her clean the mud off her jeans when Max Dalton pushed her over in the playground. He’s never seen the pictures covering the walls, crinkled rectangles of sugar paper with dinosaurs and spacemen painted on them, each kid’s name written in the bottom right hand corner in black _Sharpie_ , or the black spiders and witches hats they made for Halloween that he and Ed spent their lunch break hanging from the ceiling last week.

Everything in here is safe.

Clean.

Today they’re making _Play-Doh_. He likes to do stuff like this with them, stuff that doesn’t cost a lot of money. He’s started it off, that’s why he left so late on Friday, because he was mixing it so that he could leave it in the fridge over the weekend. When he holds up the plastic bag, their eyes go wide because they’ve never seen black _Play-Doh_ before. It’s exactly the reaction he was hoping for, beckoning them towards his desk. There’s some pushing and shoving as they gather around, but nothing he can’t control by reminding them that there’s plenty of room for everyone. Then they’re rapt as he dumps the lump of black dough on his desk and tells them, ‘Today we’re going to learn about the night sky.’

There’s a collective _Ohhhhhhh_.

He starts to flatten it out with the palms of his hands and they copy him, patting the dough until it’s rectangle that takes up most of his desk. Someone (probably Puja) lets out a little squeal when he opens the drawer to his desk and takes out some tubes of glitter. They go buck wild, of course, chucking handfuls of pink, gold and silver glitter onto the dough until it’s covered. When it is, Harry shows them how to knead it and they go buck wild with that as well, folding and punching the black dough with their little fists until it sparkles.

‘It’s like space!’ Arun says with a gasp that makes the edges of Harry’s heart soften.

‘To infinity and beyond!’ he tells them, cutting them each a piece then lets them have it, divvying up the plastic moon and star cutters he got from the 99p shop last week. They fight over them, of course, and over who has the biggest piece and who has the piece with the most glitter, but eventually settle down. Arun makes a spaceship and Sophia makes a series of stars which she then uses to spell out the letter H, which he promises to keep.

‘That’s lovely,’ he tells Puja, who’s made a starry scene complete with a crescent moon. But as soon as he does, Max reaches out and flattens it with his fist then throws his head back and laughs in a way that can only be described as _maniacal_. She erupts into tears – proper, fat, meaty tears – and Harry’s tempted to tell her that’s how boys let you know they like you, but sends Max back to his desk instead. He doesn’t yell, doesn’t try to explain why what he did was wrong (he knows exactly why it’s wrong) like he used to, just ignores him, which makes Max furious. He kicks the desk before he stomps off, which Harry also ignores, and it works; a few minutes later he sheepishly approaches the desk and apologises to Puja without being told to.

It’s a small victory, but Harry will take it.

 

+++

 

It takes so long to scrape the _Play-Doh_ off his desk that he almost misses break. He’s so absorbed, sure that he’ll never get the glitter out of the grooves in the old wood that he doesn’t hear Ed come in and almost jumps clear out of his skin when he says, ‘Hiya!’

‘Shit,’ Harry gasps, putting his hand to his chest like he’s just been shot.

‘Sorry, bro. Didn’t mean to scare you.’

‘It’s okay,’ he tells him, taking a breath and sweeping his hair back with his hand.

‘You all right? What you been up to?’

‘Learning about the night sky.’ Harry avoids his gaze, looking back down at the desk.

‘Cool.’

Harry is aware of him shuffling from one foot to the other, watching him go at the lumps of drying dough with the edge of a ruler as he waits for Harry to say something. When he doesn’t, he hears Ed suck in a breath and say, ‘So.’

‘Mum called you,’ Harry mutters without looking up.

‘She’s worried, Haz.’

‘I’m fine.’

‘Did something happen with Zayn?’

‘No.’ He doesn’t mean to say it as sharply as he does, but he feels oddly protective.

‘What, then?’

‘Nothing.’

‘Harry,’ he says softly, taking a step towards the desk.

‘It’s nothing,’ he lies, attacking a particularly stubborn smear of _Play-Doh_. From the corner of his eye, he can see Ed shaking his head.

‘Don’t do this again, Haz. Don’t push me away. _Please_.’

The bell rings and they both jump.

‘Not now,’ Harry says under his breath as he hears the kids in the corridor. ‘Lunch?’

‘Lunch.’ He smiles but Harry sees the muscles in his back tense under his shirt as he turns to walk out.

 

+++

 

Harry considers doing a runner when the lunch bell rings. If it wasn’t so cold, he’d go to Markfield Park, sit under a tree and listen to Yo-Yo Ma. That usually helps. But Ed is waiting for him outside his classroom and Harry stops because he can’t do this. He can’t tell him in the staff room while the other teachers eat their packed lunches and bitch about lesson plans.

‘Let’s sit in my car,’ Ed suggests and Harry’s so relieved he almost kisses him.

 

+++

 

It’s freezing but it’s nice to feel something other than numb. Ed turns on the heater as soon as they clamber into the car. It doesn’t do much, but when he tunes the radio to Classic FM Harry wants to cry because whenever he thinks he’s alone in all this, Ed does something like that.

‘Talk to me,’ he says, turning in his seat towards him.

 _You’re not alone_ , he reminds himself, listening to the soft strain of a violin, but he still can’t say it out loud. Even to Ed.

‘I’m fine,’ he says instead, but Ed doesn’t let him get away with it.

‘Harry.’

He sighs and rubs his forehead with his hand. ‘Just give me a minute, okay?’

Ed turns to look out the windscreen at the car park. It’s full, the roofs of the cars glistening with frost like sugar on top of a row of mince pies. It makes him think of his mother again, his hand balling into a fist as he thinks of her car spinning out of control on an icy road.

Spinning, spinning, spinning.

He has to call her, but Ed interrupts the thought.

‘Is it Rory?’

Harry nods.

‘Just ignore him. He’s a persistent asshole but he’ll get the message eventually.’ When Harry doesn’t say anything, just nods again, he turns to look at him. ‘What is it? What aren’t you telling me?’

Harry licks his lips and sucks in a breath. ‘He sent me a letter.’

‘A letter?’

Harry nods.

‘What did he say?’

Harry shakes his head this time.

‘Did he threaten you?’

Harry nods.

‘Physically?’

Harry nods.

‘What did he say?’

Harry shakes his head again. ‘I can’t.’

‘Was it bad?’

Harry nods.

‘Jesus,’ Ed murmurs, turning to look back out at the car park.

‘Should I tell the police?’

‘No!’ Ed is so emphatic it startles him. ‘No,’ he says, catching himself and saying it more gently this time. ‘That’s what he wants, Haz.’

He’s right. Rory wants him to go to the police so he can tell them that Harry’s mad.

That it’s all in his head.

‘You can’t engage with him. That’s what he wants.’ Ed frowns furiously. ‘Don’t call him, don’t threaten him, don’t acknowledge him in any way.’

Harry continues to nod dumbly, tugging on his bottom lip with his fingers.

‘Just ignore him.’

Harry turns to look at him then. ‘But he put it through my door.’

‘What? Through the front door or your door?’

‘ _My_ door.’

‘How?’ Ed’s voice is a little higher.

‘I don’t know.’

‘How does he know where you live?’

‘I don’t know.’

‘How did he get in?’

‘I don’t know, Ed!’ He doesn’t mean to shout. ‘Sorry.’

‘It’s okay. I just-’

‘I know.’

‘No wonder you’re freaking out.’

‘I’m not a freak!’

Harry covers his face with his hands and Ed apologises this time.

‘I’m sorry.’

‘No it’s me,’ Harry says through his fingers.

‘It’s _him_.’

‘Yeah?’ Harry takes his hands away from his face and makes himself look at him. ‘So why do I want to see him, then?’

Ed stares at him. ‘What?’

He whispers it, like he’s scared to say it out loud and Harry has to look away again.

‘Why the fuck would you want to see him, Harry? After everything he did.’

‘I don’t _want_ to.’ The tops of his ears burn. ‘But maybe he’ll leave me alone if I do.’

‘Leave you alone?’ Ed sounds disgusted. ‘What the fuck is wrong with you?’

Harry feels it like a slap across the face.

‘I’m sorry,’ Ed mutters, rubbing his mouth with his fingers. ‘I’m sorry.’

Harry doesn’t say anything because he’s right: there is something wrong with him.

‘Did you take your medication?’ Ed asks gingerly.

He nods.

‘Have you called Cath?’

‘I will.’

‘Promise?’

Harry nods again. ‘I promise.’

‘Please,’ Ed starts to say then stops himself, but he still hears it.

 _Please don’t do this again, Harry_.

 

+++

 

It’s been two years and Cath’s office looks exactly the same as it did the first time he walked in. He comes here once a week now so his legs don’t shake like they did that first time and Ed and Gemma don’t have to wait for him in the waiting room flicking through dog-eared copies of _Psychologies_ , but he still feels the same spike of panic when Cath closes the door.

Even the sofa’s the same, although he’s never laid on it like he thought he’d have to when his GP suggested it – _therapy_. His mother cried when he told her. He knows now that it wasn’t because she was shocked or scared or disappointed, she was relieved. Relieved not just that he wouldn’t be waking her up at 3 a.m. anymore to check that she was still alive, but because he was getting help. He wouldn’t have to keep living with Ed, could get a job, maybe even go on holiday. Normal things that other twenty-three-year olds did.

Whatever normal is.

The office is pretty much what he expected: sparse. White walls and cream carpet and a window that looks out at a cluster of trees that he’s watched fill out over the months then shake themselves bare again only to fill out again. Now they’re bare again, their black branches like cracks in the winter white sky. There’s hardly any furniture in there, just the sofa and the chair Cath sits in, separated by a blond wood coffee table. There’s a desk in the corner which is always tidy, just an ageing Mac and a pen pot. No family photos or mug of cold coffee, no hairband to tie her hair back or half eaten breakfast bar. Not even a tube of hand cream.

It’s simple – quiet – not engaging in any way. There’s nothing personal, just a box of tissues on the coffee table and a black and white print of a forest which gives Harry something to focus on but isn’t distracting. It used to bother him, how little personality it had, like an Ikea showroom, but now it’s kind of comforting, like the smell of his mother’s perfume.

They’ve been sitting in silence for a few minutes, Harry fiddling with a loose thread hanging from the cuff of his jumper. He wants her to start first, but knows that she won’t.

She never does.

‘Thanks for seeing me at such short notice,’ he says at last, and his tone is rather formal given that she knows all of his secrets.

Most of them, anyway.

She just nods.

‘I mean, I know I’m seeing you on Thursday but-’

When he trails off, she crosses her legs neatly. ‘Why couldn’t it wait, Harry?’

‘Mum said I should call,’ he says, then cringes when he hears how pathetic that sounds.

‘Why did she think you should call?’

His gaze drifts to the black and white print of the forest on the wall behind her chair. He realises then why he finds it so soothing, because it reminds him of camping with Ed.

‘It’s Rory.’ He says it to print, not her.

‘What about Rory?’

He hesitates, always hesitates when she pushes him like this.

‘He’s back.’

‘Back how, Harry?’

He starts playing with the thread on his jumper again. ‘He called.’

‘When?’

‘Last night.’

‘And how did that make you feel?’

He laughs, sudden and bitter. ‘It was lovely to hear from him.’

She looks at him, waiting for his smile to fade. When it does, he dips his head.

‘He wants to meet up.’

‘Do you want to meet him?’

‘Yes,’ Harry says from nowhere and the shock of it is like a fire alarm ringing out.

‘Why do you want to meet him?’

He feels the words bubble up in his throat and tries to swallow them back but can’t.

‘I miss him.’ He waits for her to say something. When she doesn’t, he looks her in the eye for the first time. ‘What the fuck is wrong with me?’

She writes something in her notebook.

‘What are you writing?’ She doesn’t tell him, just continues writing, which makes him even more angry. ‘That I’m mad? That I’m a fucking freak?’

She lifts her chin to look at him then. ‘Why do you think that you’re a freak, Harry?’

‘You know that I am.’

‘Do I, Harry?’

‘I wouldn’t be here if I wasn’t, would I?’

‘Do you think that everyone who is in therapy is a freak, Harry?’

‘Yes!’

He’s shouting now, really shouting and she writes something else.

‘Why do you think that, Harry?’

‘Because we can’t cope, because we can’t be normal without this,’ he holds his arms out, gesturing at the office. ‘Without fucking pills and fucking _cognitive behaviour therapy_.’

He says it like it isn’t real - _cognitive behaviour therapy_ \- like it’s made up.

She writes that down as well. ‘Diabetics can’t cope without insulin,’ she says, without looking up from her notebook. ‘Are they freaks as well?’

He rolls his eyes. ‘That’s different.’

‘Why?’

‘Because they can’t help it.’

‘Can you help this, Harry?’

‘Stop.’

‘Stop what?’

‘Fucking _stop_!’

She doesn’t.

‘ _What the fuck is wrong with me?_ ’ she reads from her notebook.

Harry glares at her like she’s just told a pub full of people his biggest secret.

‘Why are you so upset, Harry?’

‘Because Nina Dobrev is leaving the Vampire Diaries.’

He sounds like Max when he’s made to apologise for pushing Puja over or pulling her hair or whatever the fuck he’s done that day to make her cry.

It doesn’t work with Cath, either.

‘Why are you upset, Harry?’

She’s pushing him. He doesn’t like it when she pushes him because it makes him push back, like when his mother used to make him eat his peas.

‘Why are you upset, Harry?’

‘For fucks sake!’ he hisses. ‘Say something else!’

‘Why are you upset, Harry?’

‘Because I’m scared, okay?’ The relief when he finally says it is dizzying.

‘Is it normal to be scared after everything you’ve been through?’

He can’t look at her. ‘Yes.’

‘So is it okay to be scared that Rory is trying to get back in touch?’

‘Yes.’

‘Does that mean there’s something wrong with you, Harry?’

‘No,’ he says because he knows that’s what she wants him to say.

He almost believes it.

 

+++

 

His phone rings as he’s getting on the bus outside Cath’s office. He just about manages to get his glove off to answer it before it goes to voicemail.

‘Hello?’ he says then holds his breath when he realises that he didn’t check who it was.

‘Sorry. Bloody temporary lights on Greens Lane.’

He stops so suddenly the bus doors nearly close on him. ‘Zayn?’

‘I should be at yours in ten.’

 _Bollocks_.

 

+++

 

He can see a car pulling up outside his flat as he gets off the bus and starts running. He’s out of breath by the time he gets to him, his cheeks burning and his hair coming loose from its bun.

‘Sorry,’ he pants, heaving the strap of his satchel back onto his shoulder.

Zayn smiles – big and bright – closing the gap between them and pressing a kiss to his mouth. There’s no hesitation, no playing it cool, and it startles Harry so much that he goes rigid as Zayn takes a step back to look at him. He looks so immaculate, in jeans and a neat black shirt that looks freshly ironed, that Harry is furious at himself for forgetting about their date. He could have worn his favourite shirt which he would have unbuttoned _just enough_ to give Zayn a glimpse of his moth tattoo. But there he is in his work coat that has cat hair on it from that time Dusty fell asleep on it and a jumper that’s fraying at the cuffs.

Hardly the best first impression.

But Zayn doesn’t seem bothered, gesturing towards his car. It isn’t what Harry expected. He didn’t expect him to drive, actually. Zayn seems more of the skateboard type. But there he is, leading him towards a black BMW. Nothing too flash, if anything it’s rather sensible – something a doctor or a lawyer would drive – even if where he’s parked isn’t sensible at all, right on Seven Sisters Road, which is a red route.

‘You’ll get a ticket,’ Harry says lamely, then curses himself.

He sounds like Ed.

But Zayn just smiles and something in him settles for the first time all day.

‘You’re so cute,’ he says, kissing him again.

 

+++

 

Zayn takes him to an Italian place in Stoke Newington. Not the cool part where he and Ed usually hang out in, but the dodgy bit where the betting shops and Asian supermarkets have yet to give way to gastropubs with locally-sourced craft beers. It’s on a road he would never venture down alone, but when they get inside, it’s actually kind of sweet. And _full_ , every table taken, like that Tapas place in Waterloo that looks like a shithole from the outside but does the best calamari he’s ever had. It’s exactly what an Italian restaurant should be; small and dark with red and white check table cloths and plastic grapes hanging from the ceiling. There’s a candle and rose on every table and when Harry hears That’s Amore playing, he wants to take his phone out and take a photograph so he never forgets it.

They’re greeted by a guy Harry guesses is the owner, a tiny man with hair as smooth as boot polish, who hugs Zayn like he’s just come back from war.

‘Vieni qui, figliolo!’

‘Ludo!’ Zayn slaps him on the back. When he lets go, Zayn steps back and thumbs over his shoulder. ‘This is Harry,’ he says, and it’s so easy – so natural – that Harry can’t help but smile clumsily.

‘Ciao, Harry! Benvenuto!’

‘Hope you don’t mind Italian,’ Zayn says as Ludo leads them to his best table.

‘Of course he doesn’t,’ Ludo huffs, handing Harry a menu. ‘You like good food, yes?’ Harry nods. ‘Then Zayn brought you to the right place. Wine?’

Zayn shakes his head. ‘I’m driving.’

‘Just Harry then,’ Ludo says before he can object then sweeps off towards the bar. He returns a few moments later with a wine glass and a bottle of Chianti, an old fashioned one in a basket, like the ones his mother used to buy when she was having a dinner party.

‘Salute!’ he says, pouring Harry a generous glass and leaving the bottle on the table.

‘You trying to get me liquored up again?’ Harry giggles when he saunters off.

Zayn doesn’t deny it, just smirks and opens the menu.

‘I don’t know why I’m checking,’ he says, closing it again. ‘I know what I want.’

‘Yeah?’

‘Spag bol. Standard.’

Harry looks up at him with a frown. ‘You come to an Italian for Spag bol?’

‘Not any Italian.’ He smiles at the waiter who brings him a glass of _Coke_. ‘ _This_ Italian.’

‘Good?’

He looks around and leans forward. ‘Better than my mum’s,’ he whispers, then points at Harry, an eyebrow arched. ‘Don’t tell her that, though.’

When he sits back in his chair with a comfortable smile, something in Harry softens.

‘What?’ he asks, tilting his head at him and Harry feels his cheeks flush.

He must be smiling like a moron.

‘I was just thinking,’ he says with a shrug.

‘Yeah?’

‘I’ve never been on a date before.’

Zayn stares at him. ‘What?’

He shrugs again. ‘I either hook up with people I’ve just met or I’ve known for ages.’

‘I’m honoured.’ Zayn presses his hand to his chest. ‘Am I doing okay so far?’

Harry pretends to think about it. ‘Not bad.’

‘Hey! I opened the car door for you.’

‘Yes! That was good. No flowers, though.’

When Harry tuts and shakes his head, Zayn’s eyes light up.

‘What?’ he asks warily but Zayn is already on his feet. ‘Where are you going?’

He doesn’t answer, just starts walking around the restaurant, weaving between the tables and apologising with a smooth smile as he takes the rose from each one.

‘What are you doing?’ Harry laughs, embarrassed and delighted, all at once. But Zayn ignores him, gathering up all the roses then returning to the table. ‘You did not.’

Harry laughs, covering his face with his hands when he realises that everyone in the restaurant is watching as Zayn tugs the hairband out of his hair and ties them together.

When he hands them to him, Harry rolls his eyes.

‘Too cheesy?’ Zayn asks with an unrepentant smirk.

‘ _So cheesy_ ,’ he tells him, hiding his smile behind his wine glass.

 

+++

 

Harry orders the spag bol as well because he wants to know if it’s as good as Zayn says it is. Not that they eat much, too distracted by the couple in the corner who are clearly having an affair.

‘What do you think everyone in here is saying about us?’ Harry asks absentmindedly, twirling some spaghetti around his fork. ‘They must think we’re mad after the rose thing.’

Zayn reaches across the table for his hand and Harry is so shocked, he flinches. ‘Sorry,’ he murmurs when Zayn pulls his hand away and reaches for his glass of _Coke_ instead. _I was surprised_ , he wants to tell him – to _yell_ – fucking furious with himself. _Please do it again_.

But the moment’s gone.

There’s an excruciating moment of silence as they each stare down at their spag bol.

‘What did you get up to today?’ Harry asks, desperate to change the subject.

Zayn doesn’t look at him. ‘I’ve been at the Old Bailey all day.’

‘The Old Bailey?’

Zayn gingerly lifts his eyelashes. ‘I work for the police.’

Harry’s fork stills. ‘No fucking way!’

‘Serious and Organised Crime.’

‘No fucking way!’

Zayn chuckles, raising his chin to look at him properly again.

‘Are you like a detective or something?’

‘Sort of.’ He shrugs gracefully. ‘Family liaison, actually.’

‘Like J.J. in Criminal Minds?’

Harry tries not to sound too excited but Ed is going to fucking shit himself.

Zayn laughs this time. ‘I guess.’

‘How did you end up doing that?’

‘By accident, really.’ He stops to tug the napkin off his lap and wipes the corners of his mouth. ‘My dad runs a youth club back in Bradford.’ He stops again and when his gaze dips to his plate, Harry puts his fork down. ‘I mean, we never really talked about it.’ He shrugs, less confidently this time. ‘Me being gay. I mean, he knew, he just never mentioned it, you know?’

Harry nods.

‘My mum and sisters knew but Dad wouldn’t acknowledge it.’ Zayn stops to scratch the back of his neck. ‘For a long time I thought it was because he was embarrassed, you know?’

Harry nods again, wishing he’d let him hold his hand because he wants to squeeze it.

Let him know that he’s listening.

‘Then one day he came home and told me that there was a kid my age at the youth club who thought he was gay and he didn’t know what to say.’ He stabs at his spaghetti with his fork. ‘Turns out he was so scared to upset me that he didn’t say anything at all.’ He idly flicks away a piece of onion. ‘So he asked me to talk to him – the kid – and that’s how it started, I guess. There was one guy then another then a girl until the club became known in the area as a safe place for Muslim kids who were, you know,’ he puts his fork down and shrugs, ‘questioning.’

‘That’s amazing.’

‘It was. We even had a trans guy called Dawood who used to get changed in the toilets before he went home. He’d wash his make up off and put his school uniform back on like nothing happened. At least he got to be himself, even if it was only a couple nights a week.’

‘That’s so cool.’

Harry sounds like an idiot but he doesn’t know what else to say.

It is cool.

‘I took it for granted, to be honest,’ Zayn admits, ‘growing up somewhere so accepting. It wasn’t until Dawood stopped coming that I remembered how fucked up people can be.’

‘What happened to him?’

‘No one knows.’

Harry lowers his voice. ‘Do you think someone hurt him?’

‘I don’t know. He just _disappeared_. That’s how I got involved with the police. No one ‘round my way trusted them so they wouldn’t talk to them when they started asking about Dawood. But they’d talk to me, for some reason.’ Zayn shrugs as if to say, _I don’t know why_. ‘I suppose it helped that I speak Urdu and a bit of Punjabi, so I kind of became a go between.’

‘And here you are, a real life super hero.’

‘I don’t know about that,’ Zayn scoffs, picking up his fork. ‘So how was your day?’

‘I made sparkly _Play-Doh_.’

Zayn looks up from his plate with a frown. ‘Sparkly _Play-Doh_?’

‘We were learning about the sky at night.’

Zayn nods. ‘Did you make a dick out of it when they left?’

Harry laughs so hard he has to cover his mouth with his hand.

 

+++

 

They’re chatting so much that Harry doesn’t realise that Zayn’s pulled up outside the door to his flat until he kills the engine.

‘Oh,’ Harry says with a frown. ‘Is that it?’

As soon as he hears himself say it, he groans, wondering if he’ll ever be able to say the right thing in front of him.

This is why he isn’t allowed to go on dates.

Luckily Zayn laughs. ‘I had a great time too, Harry.’

‘I did,’ he insists, trying not to whine and failing. ‘A _great_ time.’

Zayn nods as if to say, _Sure_.

‘I did.’ He puts his hands in his hair and fists them. ‘I swear.’

Zayn goes to say something, then thinks better of it, turning to face the steering wheel again. Harry wants to reach over and squeeze his arm, tell him to go on, but he doesn’t have to as Zayn turns to face him again.

‘Listen,’ he says gently. ‘I’m in a really weird place right now.’

 _Here it comes_. Harry’s heart sinks, his hand already on the handle of the door.

‘I’m in the middle of this trial at the Old Bailey-’

‘It’s okay,’ Harry interrupts.

He doesn’t have to say it.

He doesn’t want to hear him say it.

‘Listen,’ Zayn says again, smiling this time. ‘I made a promise to myself that I wouldn’t ask you out until after the trial was over because I don’t want to rush this, you know?’ Harry nods, his heart bobbing up in his chest again when Zayn’s smile loosens. ‘But then you were wearing that fucking awful Hawaiian shirt.’

‘Hey!’ Harry points at him. ‘That’s my lucky shirt. Ed makes me wear it every week. Why do you think we won the quiz? If it was up to you-’

Zayn interrupts him this time. ‘Don’t say phlegm. I’m trying to have a moment here.’

Harry sniggers.

‘Anyway,’ he goes on, ‘Timing is a tricky thing.’

Harry’s heart begins to sink again.

‘One day, when it’s not fucking freezing and I don’t need to pee, I’ll tell you all about what it’s like to be Muslim and gay in the police force, but for now, let me just say this: I am out.’ He waves his hands. Not quite jazz hands, but close enough. ‘Like _out_ out. I’m an activist and I run more support groups than I keep up with and I’m writing a book and,’ he stops for breath. ‘It’s taken a lot for me to get to this point, Harry. A lot. So,’ his gaze dips away from his. ‘So I’m going to kiss you in the street and hold your hand in restaurants and give you flowers and open doors for you ‘cos I’m a cheesy motherfucker and I’m not sorry about that. I’m not.’

Harry wants to say about twenty things at once but it just comes out as, ‘No.’

‘Listen,’ Zayn says, looking up at him again, the skin between his eyebrows creasing. ‘I don’t know what’s going on with you right now but if this isn’t the right time, just say.’

‘No.’

Zayn presses his hand to his chest. ‘I’ll understand, I swear.’

‘No,’ Harry says, out of breath from forcing himself to say it again. ‘No. It’s not like that. It’s just.’ He has to stop and force himself to breathe. ‘It’s just.’ He stops again and makes himself look at Zayn. ‘One day, when it’s not fucking freezing and you don’t need to pee, I’ll tell you about how I’m not used to guys being nice to me.’

Zayn’s jaw clenches and Harry thinks he’s said too much but he reaches over to take Harry’s face in his hands.

Harry doesn’t flinch this time.

‘We can take it slow,’ Zayn says, his eyelashes fluttering.

‘I’m sorry. I-’

‘Don’t.’ Zayn stops him, pressing his thumbs into his cheeks. ‘It’s okay.’

‘Okay.’ His arms feel like lead, but Harry manages to lift them, winding his fingers around Zayn’s wrists. ‘What you doing tomorrow night?’

‘What did you have in mind?’

Harry smiles sheepishly. ‘The Christmas season has started at the Curzon. They’re starting with Die Hard.’

‘AKA The Greatest Christmas Film of All Time.’

‘Yes!’ Harry squeezes his wrists. ‘Ed says it’s Miracle on 34th Street!’

‘As if.’ Zayn scoffs. ‘Elf maybe.’

‘How badly do you need to pee because I have a lot of feelings about Elf.’

Zayn strokes Harry’s cheeks with his thumbs. ‘I’ve got time.’

 

+++

 

Apparently, ‘taking it slow’ means kissing for an hour in Zayn’s car. Harry’s exhausted when he gets in but he still runs up the stairs to his flat, not on purpose for once, but because the world seems to shine like he’s had too much wine. Until he opens the door and sees the brown envelope on the doormat that is. No, he thinks as he rips it open.

No.

No.

No.

 

_HARRY AND ZAYN,_

_SITTING IN A ~~TREE~~ CAR,_

_K-I-S-S-I-N-G_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Much love to Grace for reading through this for me, although any mistakes are my own, of course. Thanks also to everyone who read the first chapter. I'm so glad you're excited (if a little worried!) about where this is going. As for those of you who have read Beneath the Skin and think they know what's going to happen, I hate to break it to you, but I just used the watermelon thing. The rest of this is very different, so you'll just have to wait and see what happens...


	3. Bingo

Ed almost chokes on his omelette. ‘You went out with Zayn last night?’

‘Speak up,’ Harry hisses. ‘I don’t think the guy in the corner heard you.’

‘I heard,’ the guy says without looking up from his full English.

Harry puts his head in his hands, utterly exhausted. He had fuck all sleep again last night so he’s been existing on black coffee and prayer all morning and has now hit a wall. He’d hoped eating would help, but the smell of fried eggs and cheap baked beans in the café turned his stomach so much that he could only manage a couple mouthfuls of his cheese and ham toastie.

That’s how he ended up telling Ed about the letter from Rory, because he’d given up. He wasn’t going to tell him, but Ed knew something was wrong. That’s why he insisted they go out for lunch. Still, Harry was doing well, fobbing him off by saying he and Zayn were out late. But then a Carly Rae Jepsen song started playing on the radio and he’s not saying Ed planned it, but when she sang _I really really really really really really like you_ for the one-hundred and forty-eighth time, he was left with two options: punch himself in the face or tell him.

So he told him.

It did not go down well.

‘Why didn’t you tell me that you were going out with him, Haz?’

Ed lowers his voice this time but only he can make whispering sound like yelling.

‘You’re focusing on the wrong thing here, bro. Forget Zayn. Rory was outside my flat last night.’

That makes him pause.

‘Show me the letter,’ he says, putting his knife and fork down.

When he holds his hand out, Harry picks his satchel off the floor by his feet. His hands are trembling so much that it takes him a second or two to find the envelopes in the mess of paperwork and brightly coloured picture books in his bag, but when he does, he pulls them out. He’s read them so many times that he knows which one is which just from the way envelopes are torn, handing Ed the one he came home to last night.

‘Here.’

Ed takes it from him, tugging out the letter and unfolding it.

‘Shit,’ he mutters, his skin somehow paler and pinker all at once. It makes Harry’s heart throb as Ed holds out his other hand. ‘Show me the first one.’

Harry gives him it, watching the way his blond eyebrows almost meet as he reads it.

‘Jesus, Haz,’ he says under his breath.

‘I know.’

‘Shit.’ Ed looks up at him, his lips parted. ‘He threatened to cut you open.’ He shakes the letter at Harry like he hasn’t read it a hundred times already. ‘What the fuck?’

‘I know.’

‘Why didn’t you tell me?’

‘I did.’ Harry lowers his voice. ‘I told you it was bad.’

‘I thought you meant that he was threatening to come to London.’ He looks down at the letter again. ‘Not _this_. This is fucking psychotic, even for Rory.’

‘Now do you get why I haven’t slept for two days?’

‘Yeah. I mean.’ He stops and blinks a few times, his cheeks red now. ‘This is disturbing.’

Harry lets go of a breath, glad he’s told him, that he understands.

‘I have to meet with him, right?’

Ed lifts his chin to stare at him. ‘Are you out of your fucking mind?’

Harry raises his eyebrows at him as if to say, _You know I am_.

‘Why?’ Ed asks, holding the letters up. ‘What good will meeting him do?’

‘He’s clearly not getting the message, is he?’

‘And seeing him again is going to help _how_ exactly?’

‘I can tell him to his face. Tell him to leave me alone.’

‘But that’s what he wants, Haz. Can’t you see that? If you give in, he’s won.’

‘Not giving in doesn’t feel much like winning, either.’

‘I know,’ he concedes, exhaling through his nose. ‘But you can’t engage with him.’

‘Should I tell the police?’

‘You have to. I mean, this is-’ Ed trails off, his brow furrowing as he thinks about it, then lets out a sigh. ‘But he’ll just deny it, won’t he? And how can you prove he sent them? It’s not like he’s signed them.’ He checks the envelopes. ‘There’s no postmark, nothing.’

‘I can’t prove it’s him, that’s the point.’ Harry jabs his temple with his finger. ‘That’s why he’s doing it, to fuck with my head.’

‘Don’t let him.’

‘How?’

‘Just ignore him. If he thinks he’s not getting to you he’ll get bored and move on.’

‘I have been ignoring him and he’s getting worse. He’s hanging around outside my flat watching me snog my new boyfriend, for fucks sake.’

Ed arches an eyebrow at that. ‘Boyfriend?’

‘You know what I mean.’ Harry dismisses it with his hand, reaching for his mug.

‘At least he only saw you kissing.’

‘There was nothing else to see.’

Ed chuckles. ‘Good thing you had the self-control to go up to your flat.’

‘He hasn’t been in the flat.’ Ed looks confused and Harry lowers his voice to a whisper. ‘We haven’t.’

‘Haven’t what?’

‘You know.’ Harry avoids his gaze, saying it into his mug as he takes a sip of coffee, but he’s pretty sure Ed’s eyebrow is almost touching his hairline now.

‘You haven’t fucked?’

Harry shoots a look across the café at the guy in the corner.

‘Heard that too,’ he mumbles, dipping a piece of sausage into the yolk of his fried egg.

‘Will you lower your voice,’ Harry says through his teeth. ‘What if he’s a parent?’

‘Sorry,’ Ed whisper shouts. ‘But I’m in shock here.’

‘Why?’

‘You’ve only kissed?’

‘Yeah.’ When he makes himself look at him, Ed’s mouth is open. ‘So?’

‘You’ve just kissed?’

‘Yes,’ Harry snaps, not liking where this is going at all.

‘Nothing else?’

Harry shakes his head.

‘No blow jobs?’

‘Nope.’

‘Not even a hand job?’

‘No jobs of any kind.’

Ed looks stunned. ‘Why?’

‘What?’ Harry aims for nonchalant but lands on defensive. ‘You’re making out like I’m a slag or something.’ He pushes his plate away. ‘I’ve only slept with one person, Ed.’

‘Yeah. But-’

‘But what?’ Harry asks, his gaze narrowing across the table.

‘You’re hardly a virgin, Haz.’

‘And what? I’m single. If I want to suck a dick, I will.’

Ed hushes him this time. ‘Why are you being like this?’ he asks with a frown.

‘Because you’re making me out to be some sort of whore.’

‘I’m not. I’m merely pointing out that you’ve done more with guys you like less.’

‘We better get back. I need to set up for my next class.’ Harry takes the letters back and stuffs them in his satchel. ‘We’re doing Letter Bingo and I need to get the cards ready.’

When he looks up again, Ed’s face has softened.

‘You really like him, don’t you?’

Harry avoids the question, fussing over the buckles on his satchel. ‘Who?’

‘You know who.’

‘I guess.’ He makes himself look at him but Ed looks sad all of a sudden, his shoulders sagging as he stares across the table at him. ‘What?’

‘Like _really_ like him, Haz.’

He shrugs. ‘So?’

‘Fucking hell.’

Harry’s jaw clenches. ‘What?’

‘Nothing. I’m just.’ He stops to shake his head. ‘After Rory I didn’t think you could-’

He trails off but Harry answers the question anyway. ‘I didn’t think I could, either.’

Ed still looks forlorn, though, and it makes Harry uneasy. ‘What?’

He catches himself, smiling tightly. ‘Nothing.’

‘What, Ed? Tell me.’

‘I just.’ He reaches for the ketchup bottle, squeezing it between his finger and thumb so he doesn’t have to look at Harry. ‘I just don’t know if this is a good idea right now.’

‘What? Me being happy for once?’

There’s a sharp second of silence after he says it and the shock of it makes his cheeks burn. Harry has no idea where it came from – the bitterness – but Ed has this way of making him feel like he’s taking one step forward and two back.

‘Of course not!’ he snaps. ‘But you know how possessive Rory is.’

The tension dissolves immediately as Ed starts rubbing his neck with his hand. Harry wonders if he even knows he’s doing it and it makes him want to crawl over the table and hug him, sit in his lap and apologise into his hair as he remembers that night, Ed up against that wall, Rory’s fingers around his throat as Harry tried to pull him off. But he wouldn’t let go.

He wouldn’t let go.

‘I know,’ Harry says with a long sigh.

‘Maybe you should stay at mine tonight.’

‘I can’t. I’m seeing Zayn.’

‘ _Again_?’ When Harry rolls his eyes, Ed scrubs his hands through his hair and changes tack. ‘I just think you should be focusing on getting better.’

Better. Harry doesn’t even know what that is anymore.

It feels like a room in his flat he can’t find.

‘I’ve been doing that for two years, Ed.’

‘Not recently.’ Harry shoots a look across the table at him and Ed tilts his head as if to say, _Come on, Haz_. ‘You’ve stopped taking your medication, stopped seeing Cath-’

‘I saw Cath yesterday.’

‘Yeah, but when was the last time you saw her?’ Ed pushes. ‘You’re supposed to see her once a week and you go, what, once a month now?’

‘I don’t need to see her every week.’

‘And what about the random guys from _Grindr_ you’ve been hooking up with?’

‘Zayn isn’t some random guy.’

‘Exactly! Do you think it’s fair to drag him into all this?’

‘I’m not worried about Zayn.’

As soon as Harry says it, something in him settles as he realises that he really isn’t worried about him. It hadn’t even occurred to him that he should be until just now.

‘Wait.’ Ed looks more shocked by that than the kissing thing. ‘What?’

Harry knows what he’s thinking and looks away, over Ed’s shoulder at the fridge. It’s half full of soft drinks, rows and rows of them, each can facing in a different direction.

It makes his fingers itch.

‘You’re not worried about Zayn?’

He can hear it in his voice, how shaken up Ed is, and rightly so because this is Harry who worries about everyone. Harry who didn’t let him leave the flat for two days once because he was convinced something was going to happen to him. Harry who used to cry and beg his mother not to drive to the supermarket because he thought she was going to have an accident. Harry who couldn’t learn to drive himself because he was sure he was going to mount the pavement and mow down the women walking down the pavement with a buggy.

When he lifts his eyelashes to look at him, Ed is visibly more relaxed and Harry knows why, because he thinks that he doesn’t care about Zayn as much as he does everyone else. That this is nothing to worry about after all.

‘He can take care of himself,’ Harry explains and there’s a tone to his voice that he hasn’t heard for a while and it makes him sit up a little straighter, push his shoulders back. Like he used to when he was defending Rory.

Ed must hear it too because he starts rubbing his throat again. ‘Yeah?’

‘He works for the police.’

Ed’s eyes light up. ‘The police?’

‘Serious and Organised Crime.’

‘No fucking way!’

When Ed grins, so thrilled that he isn’t worried anymore, Harry relaxes.

‘He’s a Family Liaison Officer.’

‘Shut the fuck up!’ Ed gasps. Actually _gasps_. ‘Like J.J. on Criminal Minds?’

Harry nods.

‘You are lying!’

Harry raises his chin and smiles smugly. ‘I’d like to see Rory try.’

 

+++

 

There’s nothing like a room full of five-year olds to distract you when you need it. Letter Bingo is anarchy, Oskar yelling, ‘BINGO!’ every time Harry calls a letter that’s on his card. He reminds him that he’s only supposed to tell him when he’s called out _all of the letters_ on his card (and even then he’s supposed to say _house_ , but one thing at a time). Oskar nods but then yells, ‘BINGO!’ when Harry digs around in the red velvet bag and pulls out the letter K. So Harry ignores him, persevering with the game until he notices that Oskar isn’t yelling any more.

‘I got all the letters,’ he says with a little shrug when Harry asks why.

Hagos rolls her eyes.

 

+++

 

Harry remembers their date this time. Not that he was likely to forget, even after spending the rest of the day wiping runny noses and mediating fights over crayons. Every now and then he’d think of Zayn and feel a _rush_ that almost knocked him off his feet, like waves hitting the side of a boat. He never felt that way about Rory, maybe in the beginning when they’d just met and Harry still fretted over what to wear and if he was saying too much – or too little – but it was never like this. With Rory he was unsure, unsure how he’d be that day. Would he be pleased to see him? Would he smile and tell him that he missed him? Or would he be in a bad mood? Distant and standoffish, not holding his hand because there were people around. Harry was turned on by it at first. He thought it was challenge, thought that’s how it was supposed to be, that he was supposed to work for it. Earn it.

He thought that’s what made it worth it.

But with Zayn it’s so easy. He calls when he says he’s going to, turns up when he says he’s going to. There are no games and Harry thought this would be boring, but when he leaves work he has to stop himself running home. When he finally gets back to the flat and charges up the stairs with such adolescent impatience he drops his keys, he can’t help but laugh at himself. As soon as he gets in, he puts the letters back on top of the kitchen cupboard, ignoring the panic nipping at him as he heads into the bedroom. He drowns it out with Yo-Yo Ma, turning it up so he can hear the warm hum of the cello in the bathroom.

He showers quickly, the water so hot it makes his skin pink. Or maybe it’s the thought of seeing Zayn again, his easy smile and pink mouth. He feels the ache in his stomach first before he realises that he’s touching himself, and when he does, it’s such a relief, how good it feels – so fucking good – how his body responds immediately, relaxing in a way he hasn’t in months. The SSRIs killed his libido, killed everything until he felt nothing at all. That’s one of the reasons he stopped taking them, because he was terrified that he’d never feel this again, not without some guy he hardly knows pulling his hair and fucking his face. So he gives into it, stops to soap up his hand then closes his eyes and presses his forehead to the tiles, fisting himself at the thought of seeing Zayn again, his tongue warm and slow in his mouth.

He’s never been able to get off just on the thought of kissing before, not since he was twelve and he had that debilitating crush on Joey from Blossom, but fuck. _Fuck_. He can almost feel Zayn’s hands on his face as he moans softly. Harry loves that sound, the sound Zayn makes when they kiss, a hum he feels in his jaw that drives Harry to kiss him deeper so he makes it again. He wonders if he’ll make it when he sucks him off, if he’ll moan and reach for Harry’s hair, fist his hands in it and fuck his face because he can’t wait. If he’ll come in his mouth then slap his cheek with his dick and tell him to swallow before forcing it back in his mouth. The thought makes him come so hard he has to lean against the wall of the shower until his eyes refocus. He says his name when he does, over and over – _ZaynZaynZaynZayn_ – until he has to bite the skin on his other hand to bring himself back because it feels like he’s fucking drowning.

He can’t stop shaking, his whole body humming as he pads around his bedroom, his hair dripping. He can feel each drop, shivering as they tumble down his back to settle on the towel around his waist. Even that’s turning him on, the brush of the damp cotton against his tender dick each time he walks, until he has to stop and palm himself, closing his eyes and hissing at the sweet relief of it. He ignores it, but when he tries to tug on his jeans, he can’t, suddenly so hard the head of his cock is weeping. He doesn’t bother taking off his jeans, just leaves them around his knees and hobbles back into the bathroom, the mirror over the sink still steamed up as he leans over it and fists himself desperately. ‘Yeah,’ he can hear himself panting as he imagines Zayn coming up behind him and fucking into him with no warning. His whole body shudders, tears in his eyes at the thought of how much it would hurt, of how ashamed he’d be when Zayn pulled his hair and called him a slut, asked him if he liked his dick in his ass then fucked him so hard he’d bang his head on the mirror, damn near smashing it with each thrust. Harry puts his free arm behind his back, imagining Zayn holding it there as he fucks him, quick and deep, mouth on his ear, calling him a fucking whore, a fucking slut.

But when he comes, it isn’t Zayn’s voice he hears but Rory’s and his stomach lurches so suddenly he almost pukes in the sink. He’s doing it again. Oh God, he’s doing it again. He sobs as he steps away from the edge of the sink, every bit of him shaking as he waits for the come down, for the crush of guilt that makes him get back in the shower and scrub himself raw.

_Stop it_ , he tells himself, pressing his palms to the tile and looking down at the plughole under his feet, at the soapy water swirling down it. _Fucking stop it_. He washes himself again but he still feels filthy because he knows it’s too late, he knows he’s too far gone.

He’s already falling.

 

+++

 

Zayn’s on time but Harry’s still pacing, unsure whether he should see him. Maybe Ed’s right, maybe he should wait until he’s better, until he’s strong enough to do this without obsessing over him, adding him to the list of things that keep him up at night, that make him crazy. It’s not healthy, he knows, to want someone this much. He can tell himself it’s chemistry – even lust – but he knows it isn’t. He knows it’s whatever the fuck’s in his head that makes him do this, that makes him fixate on things until they consume him.

Ruin him.

So when Zayn presses the buzzer, Harry freezes in the middle of the living room, his heart in his mouth. He can hear Ed telling him to ignore it, not to answer the door, but the thought of Zayn being just a few feet away makes him shake. When he presses the buzzer again, Harry asks himself if his landlord is in and takes a step towards the door because of course his landlord is in. The sad sod is always in. He has no life. So before Zayn can press the buzzer a third time, Harry is snatching his coat off the back of the sofa and heading to the door. He almost trips down the stairs in his haste to answer it before his landlord does, his heart banging with each step. He’s suddenly so excited that he can’t get his hands to work to open the door, but when he does and he sees Zayn standing there, freshly shaven in a heavy wool coat, the relief is dizzying.

‘Hey,’ Harry says with a grin, not even trying to play it cool.

‘Hey,’ he says back, smiling just as freely, clearly as pleased to see him.

‘Hey.’

Zayn laughs, stepping forward to press a kiss to Harry’s mouth. As soon as their lips touch, Harry’s feels his heart purr, like when he tickles Dusty behind her ear.

‘What?’ Zayn asks when Harry giggles, stepping back again.

‘Nothing.’ Harry shakes his head, no longer able to think of a single reason why this is a bad idea. Why he can’t see Zayn all day, every day.

‘Ready?’

Harry nods but doesn’t move. Zayn takes the hint, kissing him again. He makes the sound when he does – that little moan – as he puts his arms around him. Harry melts into it, opening his mouth and exhaling contently through his nose when their tongues touch, like he’s been holding his breath since they parted last night. Then they’re kissing deeply, Harry trying not to let go of his coat as he drapes his other arm across Zayn’s shoulders and pulls him closer, so close that he can feel the buttons of his coat through his shirt. But it’s not enough, Harry having to stop himself wrapping his legs around Zayn’s waist so every bit of him is holding on.

‘Get off my doorstep, you filthy boy!’ Harry hears someone say.

It takes him a second to realise it’s his landlord and before he can fight back, he’s being shoved out onto the street, almost knocking Zayn over.

‘Who the fuck was that?’ he asks when the door slams shut behind him.

Harry rolls his eyes. ‘My landlord.’

‘You live above your landlord?’

‘Don’t,’ Harry sighs, letting him take his hand and lead him to the car.

 

+++

 

They kiss some more in the car, Harry about ready to crawl out of his seat into his lap when a bus bleeps its horn and Zayn has to pull away so it can pass. They kiss some more while they’re waiting for the film to start, Harry so into it, he spills his popcorn all over him, which is a great start. Luckily, Zayn is amused and shares his, the pair of them snuggling into their seats and snatching one last peck as the lights dim all the way and the titles roll.

Harry’s never done this before, gone to the cinema with a guy. He isn’t sure what to do. Is he allowed to talk? Will Zayn get pissed off if he whispers, ‘I love this bit’, like Ed does. Can he hold his hand? Can he rest his head on his shoulder? He really wants to rest his head on his shoulder. What if Zayn just wants to watch the film? He probably just wants to watch the film. He’ll get annoyed if Harry starts pawing at him. ‘Just sit still,’ he tells himself, but as soon as he does, Zayn turns his head to kiss Harry on the jaw. When he reaches for his hand Harry’s glad it’s dark because he’s pretty sure he’s smiling like a moron again.

 

+++

 

Harry wakes with a yelp as someone steps on his toe. ‘Hey,’ he mutters, peeling his eyes open to find that the lights in the cinema are up and everyone leaving. He sits up with a start, letting the bloke step over him and out of the aisle before turning to look at Zayn.

He smiles sweetly. ‘Hey, sleepyhead.’

‘No.’ Harry is horrified. ‘Tell me I didn’t fall sleep.’

‘You snore,’ Zayn tells him, putting his empty popcorn bucket on the floor at his feet.

Harry lets out a sound that’s somewhere between a gasp and a howl. ‘Who falls asleep during Die Hard?’

‘Come on,’ Zayn chuckles, standing up. ‘Let’s get you home.’

Harry lifts his chin with a pitiful pout but can’t move when he sees the wet circle on Zayn’s shirt that’s slightly darker than the rest of the red cotton. ‘I drooled on you,’ he says out loud, then cringes, wishing the floor of the cinema would open and swallow him whole.

Turns out he did rest his head on his shoulder after all.

 

+++

 

‘I’ll pay for it to be cleaned,’ Harry offers again when Zayn pulls up outside the door to his flat.

‘Don’t be daft,’ he tells him, rolling his eyes.

‘Please don’t be nice about it. You’re making it worse.’

‘How?’

‘I’m fucking mortified.’

When Harry covers his face with his hands, Zayn wraps his fingers around his wrists and tries to tug them away, but he won’t let him.

‘Mortified!’ he says through his fingers.

‘It was cute.’ Zayn laughs softly. ‘Glad I know about the snoring thing now, though.’

Harry muffles a scream with his hands.

‘Hey,’ Zayn tugs at his wrists again. ‘Come here. Look at me.’

Harry won’t so Zayn kisses his ear instead. He isn’t expecting him to, so he shivers with delight, telling him through his fingers to stop being nice. But Zayn ignores him, kissing the patch of skin next to his ear that his fingers aren’t covering. When he does, Harry shivers again, reluctantly moving his hands away to peer at him from under his eyelashes.

‘I’m sorry.’

‘‘S’okay,’ Zayn murmurs, kissing a line from Harry’s ear to the corner of his mouth.

‘I didn’t sleep last night.’

‘Hmmm?’

‘I never sleep, really.’

‘Yeah?’ Zayn’s mouth is so close to his that his breath catches on Harry’s lips.

He waits for the flutter in his stomach to subside. ‘Please don’t get the wrong idea.’

‘About what, babe?’

‘About me falling asleep. I guess I just feel comfortable with you.’

‘Good.’

‘Hey.’ Harry waits for him to stop and look at him. ‘I know I’ve been acting weird and I changed my mobile number thirty seconds after I met you but I really do like you. Like a lot.’

‘A lot?’ Zayn smiles sleepily.

‘ _A lot_ a lot.’

‘Yeah?’ he whispers, pressing another kiss to the corner of Harry’s mouth. He’s working his way back to his ear, a series of soft pecks that makes Harry shiver again. ‘Show me.’

‘Okay.’ He says it more to himself than to Zayn, then takes a deep breath to steady himself as he reaches across the car to cup the crotch of Zayn’s jeans with his hand. Zayn’s so shocked that he jumps back in his seat, hitting the horn with his elbow.

It makes Harry jump as well. ‘Sorry. I-’

‘It’s okay. You-’ Zayn stops to catch his breath. ‘You surprised me, that’s all.’

‘I’m sorry.’ And he’s back to being mortified. ‘I thought that’s what you meant.’

Zayn blinks at him. ‘What I meant?’

‘By _show me_.’

‘No.’ Zayn shakes his head sadly. ‘No, Harry.’

‘I’d better go.’

Harry’s so ashamed that it takes two attempts to get the car door open and when he does, he can’t get out because he hasn’t unbuckled his seatbelt. He apologises clumsily again as he does, but before he can take it off, Zayn reaches over and closes the car door.

‘Harry,’ he says gently. ‘Look at me.’

He can’t.

‘Harry.’

When he doesn’t look at him, Zayn sighs and sits back in his seat.

‘Listen. If you wanna touch my dick, have at it. But if you’re doing it because you think that I won’t call you tomorrow if you don’t then please don’t.’

When Harry doesn’t respond, just bites on the skin on his knuckle to distract himself from the tears pushing at the backs of his eyes, Zayn faces the steering wheel again.

‘Okay,’ he says, clapping his hands. ‘So far on When Zayn met Harry: you laughed and said phlegm the first time I kissed you. You forgot about our first date-’

‘I didn’t forget,’ Harry lies, crossing his arms.

‘You forgot about our first date.’ Zayn carries on. ‘Then freaked out when I tried to hold your hand.’

‘I didn’t freak out.’

‘You did a bit.’

‘Um, didn’t you just slam on the horn when I tried to touch your dick?’

Zayn ignores him, starting the list again, holding up a finger for each thing this time. ‘Okay. So you laughed and said phlegm the first time I kissed you. You forgot about our first date then freaked out when I tried to hold your hand. And-’

‘Okay. Fine,’ Harry interrupts. He shouldn’t be so petulant – the evidence is damning – but he can’t just sit there and listen to this. ‘And on our second date I _fucking drooled_ on you-’

‘ _And_ ,’ Zayn speaks over him.

Harry doesn’t let him. ‘ _And_ you just don’t have time for a new relationship right now because you need to focus on your career. Maybe if we’d met three months from now-’

‘Will you shut up.’

‘Hey.’ Harry shoots a pained look at him.

‘I’m trying to have a moment here.’

‘And I’m just short handing it because I know what you’re going to say.’

‘No you don’t.’

‘Zayn, I fell asleep on you. I get it.’

‘Get what?’

‘That you don’t want to see me anymore.’

‘Don’t I?’

‘Why would you?’

‘I have no fucking idea but here I am, thinking about where we can go tomorrow night.’

Harry finally shuts up.

‘And the night after that.’ Zayn tilts his head from side to side. ‘And the night after that. And I’ll definitely want to see you the night after that because I’m going to my cousin’s wedding so I’ll be thinking of you, trying to dance to Ballay Ballay, and will get all emotional.’

Harry smiles clumsily. ‘I have no idea what Ballay Ballay is.’

‘I know.’

When Zayn nods, Harry’s bites down on a smile. ‘So I didn’t fuck this up?’

Zayn shakes his head.

‘Not even with the drool?’

Zayn pretends to think about it and Harry shoves him, but when he laughs, he tugs on the front of Zayn’s shirt. ‘Three second warning, Malik: I’m going to kiss you. Don’t freak out.’

Zayn turns to look at him again and smiles. ‘Lay it on me.’

‘Here goes,’ Harry says with a silly grin, leaning across the car to close the gap between them. But just before their mouths meet, Zayn says, ‘Phlegm,’ and Harry splutters in his face.

 

+++

 

By the time he finally clambers out of Zayn’s car, it’s almost midnight. They’ve been kissing for two hours. Harry’s jaw is aching and when he sees his front door he’s suddenly bone tired. If he was even a little bit cool he wouldn’t look back when he opens it, but of course he does, and Zayn waves. It makes him smile so much he forgets to check the door and it isn’t until he gets up stairs and is about to open his own that he remembers. He holds his breath as he opens it but when the door swings open and the mat is bare, Harry’s so relieved, he laughs.

 

+++

 

Despite his two-hour snooze in the cinema, he still manages to get some sleep. Not much, though, because when he gets up at 3 a.m. to pee, he’s missed eighteen calls from Ed.

‘Sorry,’ Harry says as soon as he answers. ‘My phone was on DND.’

There’s a moment of angry silence then Ed says, ‘Why didn’t you text me when you got in? You were supposed to text me when you got in so I knew you were okay.’

‘Sorry, bro. I totally forgot.’

As soon as he says it, Harry winces and pulls the duvet over his head.

‘Forgot?’

‘I’m sorry-’

Ed doesn’t let him apologise. ‘I’ve been worried sick. I almost called the police.’

‘I’m sorry. I was knackered. I just hit the hay as soon as I got in.’

‘Well at least one of us can sleep.’

He hangs up and Harry rolls onto his back with a groan, calling him back.

Ed makes him wait five rings before he answers.

‘I’m an asshole,’ he says when he does.

‘I’m the asshole, actually. Or at least that’s how you make me feel sometimes.’

Harry throws the duvet back and sits up. ‘Why?’

‘You make me feel-’

When he stops, Harry doesn’t let him. ‘Like what, Ed?’

‘Like I’m bothering you.’

‘The fuck?’ Harry frowns, his mouth hanging open.

‘All you had to do was text me when you got in. That’s all I asked. One text, Haz.’

‘I know. I’m sorry, bro. I was just-’

‘Just what?’

‘Happy. I was just so happy.’

‘And you didn’t want to ruin it by talking to me.’

‘Ed!’ Harry is bewildered. ‘Of course not. I was so happy _I forgot about Rory_.’

‘Well good for you.’ He laughs sourly. ‘You know, it’s funny. _Your_ psycho ex hand delivers a letter threatening to cut you open and _I’m_ the one who can’t sleep worrying about it.’

‘Ed.’

‘Just forget it, Harry.’

‘But Ed-’

‘I’ll see you tomorrow, okay?’

‘Ed…’

‘Sleep tight.’

He hangs up again.

 

+++

 

Of course he can’t sleep after that. He considers getting his yoga mat out but ends up fucking around on his phone for a while, deleting photos to make space to run the update. When that’s done, he scrolls through his texts with Zayn, smiling to himself. _You awake?_ he types, but when he sees that it’s almost 4.30 a.m. he taps the box to _Select all_ and delete it but hits _Send_ instead.

He sits up in bed with a gasp. ‘No! No! No! No! No!’

Before he can catch his breath, Zayn calls.

He answers with a whimper. ‘Oh God I’m sorry.’

‘‘S’alright,’ Zayn says with a long yawn. ‘What’s up?’

‘Nothing.’

‘Why can’t you sleep?’

Harry falls back onto the bed with a huff. ‘I had a row with Ed.’

‘What about?’

‘I was supposed to text him when I got in.’

‘Why?’ Zayn chuckles. ‘Does he think I’m an axe murderer or something?’

‘Not at all. He thinks you’re cool as shit. It’s me he hates.’

‘He doesn’t hate you.’

‘It’s 4.30 a.m.. I’m allowed to be melodramatic.’

‘Fine.’ Zayn yawns again and Harry can’t help imagining him in bed.

‘What are you wearing?’ he asks with a wicked smirk.

‘Subtle, Styles.’

‘It’s 4 a.m., I thought I’d speed things along a bit.’

‘Nothing, of course.’

‘Yeah?’ Harry knows he’s taking the piss but the silly voice Zayn puts on makes him sound like Marilyn Monroe and it’s oddly arousing.

But then he ruins it by saying, ‘Of course not. It’s fucking freezing.’

‘Tease.’

‘I thought you wanted to speed things along?’

‘Fair enough.’ Harry yawns, stretching lazily.

‘Call Ed.’

‘No. I want to talk to you.’

‘What about?’

‘What are you wearing to your cousin’s wedding?’

‘Really?’

‘Humour me.’

‘Fine.’ Zayn sighs. ‘A kurta.’

‘What’s a kurta? Hold on.’

‘Are you Googling?’ he asks as Harry takes the phone away from his ear to do just that.

‘I need a visual,’ he shouts back. ‘Oh yeah! What colour?’

‘Dark blue and black with black piping.’

‘Nice.’ He makes it sound about a minute long as he presses the phone back to his ear.

‘Please don’t tell me this is doing it for you, Harry.’

‘Oh yeah.’

‘You know when most people do this they talk about getting _undressed_ not dressed.’

‘I’m not most people.’

‘Clearly.’

Harry smiles, stretching again, his t-shirt riding up a little as he does. He slips his hand under the duvet to tug it back down but ends up tracing circles on his stomach with his finger.

‘We can talk about getting undressed if you want,’ he suggests, stroking the thin trail of hair from his navel down to the waist of tracksuit bottoms. ‘I mean, if you want.’

‘Go on then.’

‘Wait.’ Harry checks his phone. ‘I have to be up in two hours. Are you hard yet?’

‘Jesus, Harry. You’re _so bad_ at this.’

‘Give me a break!’ He laughs. ‘I’ve never done it before.’

‘You’ve never had phone sex?’

‘No.’

‘Never?’

‘Never.’

‘How is that even possible?’

Harry isn’t sure.

‘I’ve sexted but I’ve never put on a live show.’

‘Fine.’ Zayn concedes with a melodramatic sigh. ‘Close your eyes.’

‘Okay.’ He does as he’s told, settling back on the pillow.

‘Are they closed?’

‘They’re closed.’

‘Now put your phone on speaker and rest it on your pillow so I can hear you.’

‘Why?’ he asks, but does it anyway. ‘I only need one hand.’

‘You’ve really never done this before, have you?’

Harry opens his eyes again. ‘Why would I lie about that?’

‘Close your eyes.’

Harry doesn’t know how he knows but closes them anyway.

‘Now touch yourself.’

‘Where?’ he asks with a nervous giggle.

‘Harry.’

‘Fine. But you better be doing this as well,’ Harry huffs, slipping his hand under the duvet. Then his phone beeps. ‘Who the fuck is texting me at 4.30 in the morning?’

He checks and it’s Zayn who’s sent him a photo of his hand on his bare stomach.

‘Fuck,’ Harry chokes out.

‘I’m moving my hand lower.’

Harry does too, slipping his hand back under the duvet and stopping when he reaches the waistband of his tracksuit bottoms. He hesitates, but when he hears Zayn hiss through his teeth, it’s enough to make his cock jerk. He shoves his hand under the elastic and when he touches himself, he realises why, making the same sound.

‘Your fingers cold?’

Harry giggles. ‘Yeah.’

‘Mine too. Feels good, doesn’t it?’

‘So good.’

‘I know it’s cold, but take your clothes off,’ Zayn breathes. ‘All of them. And the duvet.’

He doesn’t need to be told twice, undressing with such abandon that he knocks his phone off the pillow. As he’s reaching down to get it, Zayn tells him to put it on the bed by his hip.

‘Why?’ he asks, but does it anyway.

‘Wanna hear you.’ He sounds far away and Harry realises he’s done the same thing.

‘Hear what?’

Zayn obliges, a whisper of skin on skin emerging from the phone, making Harry’s arms ripple with goose pimples as he reaches for his cock and does the same thing.

‘That’s it,’ Zayn tells him. ‘Like that.’

‘Are you hard?’

‘Nearly. You?’

Harry presses his lips together in an attempt to suppress a moan.

‘Don’t,’ Zayn tells him with pant. ‘Wanna hear you.’

He lets it out, but it comes out as just air, but it’s enough to make Zayn groan.

‘Got any lube?’ he mumbles.

Harry can’t bear to stop touching himself, so switches hands, reaching over to open the drawer of the bedside table. He fumbles around for a bit, pulling out a tube of super glue, which he promptly chucks across the room in case he makes that mistake again.

‘You like to use a lot?’ Zayn asks when he finds it.

Harry hears the _click_ of a cap opening through the phone and is unable to speak.

‘Are you nodding?’

‘No. Only use a bit.’ Harry licks his lips and sucks in a breath. ‘I’m not cut.’

‘I am,’ Zayn tells him and Harry almost squeezes lube everywhere. ‘I like to use a lot.’

Harry’s lost the ability to speak again while he wets his palm, but Zayn carries on.

‘I like it slick.’

Harry can’t help but whimper when he touches himself, his back arching off the bed.

‘Come on. Talk to me,’ Zayn tells him when he hears.

‘About what?’

‘Labour’s chances of winning the next election. What do you think?’

Harry chuckles. ‘Just give me a sec.’

‘Why?’

‘I need to think.’

‘You’re not supposed to think, Harry, that’s the point.’

‘Yeah. But-’ he trails off as he begins stroking himself.

‘When was the last time you did this, Harry?’

‘Tonight. Before I met you.’

‘Yeah? What were you thinking about?’

Harry opens his eyes and smiles. ‘Labour’s chances of winning the next election.’

Zayn laughs.

‘You, of course,’ he admits, rolling his foreskin back.

‘Me?’

‘Yeah.’

‘What about me?’

‘Your mouth.’

‘My mouth?’

Harry’s head digs into the pillow when he thinks about it. ‘You’re such a good kisser.’

‘I am?’

‘Yeah.’

‘Is that what were you thinking about?’

‘Yeah,’ he lies, his cheeks burning as he remembers what he was really thinking about.

‘Kissing me where?’

‘Your mouth.’

‘Where else?’

‘Your neck.’

‘Where on my neck?’

‘Where the stubble ends.’ Harry brings his other hand up to his throat and squeezes.

‘I won’t shave tomorrow.’

‘Don’t.’

‘Do you like it when I don’t shave?’

Harry nods.

‘Do you like the way my stubble feels against your skin?’

‘Yeah.’

‘Where else do you want to feel it?’

‘My neck.’ Harry circles the tip of his cock with his thumb. ‘My chest.’

‘Where else?’

‘Between my thighs.’

He moves his hand down to blindly stroke the tattoo on his thigh and Zayn knows.

‘Are you touching yourself there?’

Harry nods.

‘Is your skin damp?’

‘Yes.’

‘I want you to use both hands now.’

Harry turns his head, seeking out the cool of the pillow against his cheek. ‘How?’

‘One on top of the other.’ Zayn has to stop and suck in a breath. ‘Around your cock.’

‘Make them into fists?’

‘Yeah.’

Harry does and when he imagines Zayn doing the same thing, he doesn’t need to be told, he just thrusts his hips forward. It feels so good his head rises off the pillow.

‘That’s it, babe,’ Zayn coos. ‘Just fuck into it. Fuck into it.’

Harry groans when he does it again, licking the sweat from his top lip as Zayn starts doing it as well. The sound is obscene, the pair of them panting in unison. Harry stops for a moment so he can hear him, hear the wet pop of the head of Zayn’s cock each time he pushes it through his fingers. Then he’s thrusting again, harder than before, his head spinning.

‘Easy,’ Zayn warns him. ‘Gotta make it last.’

‘Close,’ Harry whines. ‘So close.’

‘Stop.’

‘I can’t.’

He can’t. He’s never fucked a guy before but he’s imagining that his fists are Zayn’s ass and he’s fucking him, fucking him, fucking him.

‘Stop,’ he can hear Zayn saying in the fog of his imminent orgasm.

‘Can’t.’

‘Stop.’

He says it so firmly that Harry does as he’s told, whining a little when his hips still.

‘Wait,’ Zayn says, his voice _ruined_ , and it’s almost enough to make Harry shoot his load.

‘Please.’

‘I know,’ he says gently. ‘I know but I wanna make it last.’

Harry wants to tell him to come over, to just come over now, turn him over and fuck him. He trembles at the thought, but that’s not what this is about, Harry knows. It’s about talking and exploring, finding each other’s limits and learning where they are.

‘Take your hands away,’ Zayn tells him and Harry does it with a reluctant groan. ‘Now lift your knees.’ The mattress shifts underneath him as he does, the cheeks of his ass parting, making him shiver. ‘You ever fingered yourself before, babe?’

‘Yeah.’

‘Good. Get the lube.’

Harry reaches for it, his hand floundering in the sheets until he does. The muscles in his stomach are already aching from the effort of holding his knees up, but it just makes it feel so much better when he presses his wet finger into himself.

‘Which finger do you prefer?’ Zayn asks when he hears him do it.

‘Middle.’

‘I like to use my index.’

‘Can I move it?’

‘Yeah,’ Zayn breathes. ‘But just push it in as far as it will go and stop.’

‘Zayn, please.’

‘Do it.’

Harry does, his whole body shuddering as his muscles give in.

‘Hold it.’

‘Zayn.’

‘Feel that?’ Harry nods. ‘That’s what I’m going to do to you the first time I fuck you.’

‘Yeah?’

‘Push it in some more.’

‘It won’t go in any further,’ Harry whimpers.

‘It will.’

It does and Harry sighs tenderly, his toes splaying.

‘That’s what I’m gonna do,’ Zayn breathes. Harry can hear him fisting himself through the phone and uses his other hand to do the same. ‘Gonna hold still. Let you feel it.’

‘I wanna feel it.’

‘Yeah?’

‘So bad.’

‘Tell me, Harry.’

‘No lube,’ he says, rubbing his lips together. ‘Wanna suck you.’

‘Yeah?’

‘Want you to fuck my mouth first. Show me what you’re going to do.’

Zayn groans. ‘Shit, Harry.’

‘Wanna taste you first.’

‘Want you to.’

‘Make it nice and wet.’

‘Oh yeah.’

‘Take as much of you in my mouth as I can. Take you all the way in.’

‘Harry.’

‘Fucking deepthroat me.’

‘Wanna suck you too, Harry.’

‘ _Please_.’

‘Can’t stop thinking about it.’ Zayn starts to pant. ‘You imagining it?’

‘Yes.’

‘Are you thinking about how soft my mouth is?’

‘Yes.’

‘How good it feels against your tongue?’

‘Yes.’

‘Imagine it around your dick.’

‘Zayn, please.’

‘I’d take my time. Suck you real slow. Use my hand as well, squeeze you when you were close, make it last longer.’ Zayn sucks a breath through his teeth. ‘Make it last.’

‘Fuck.’

‘Can you feel it? My fingers around the base of your cock?’

Harry squeezes himself there.

‘Wanna suck you, babe. Gonna let me suck you?’

‘Yes,’ Harry hisses.

‘Then when I’m done, I’ll swallow it all.

‘Oh God.’

‘Clean you up then keep going. Can I keep going, babe?’

‘Yes.’

‘Gonna let me eat you out?’

‘Yes.’

‘Eat you out until you’re shaking. Are you shaking, Harry?’

He is, his sweaty back sticking to the sheets.

‘Good. Use your finger.’

‘Oh God.’

‘Can you get two in there now?’

‘No.’

‘You can, come on.’

Harry does as he’s told, easing his finger out and pushing two in.

He feels so full his balls tighten.

‘That feel good, babe?’

Harry nods.

‘That’s what I’m gonna do to you. Use my fingers, open you up. Get you ready for me.’

‘Yes.’

‘And my tongue. Do you like that?’

‘I’ve never.’

‘Never?’

Harry shakes his head.

‘I’d take my time with that as well, then.’

‘Please.’

‘Eat you out until you’re coming all over yourself.’

He almost is.

‘Then when I’m done are you gonna suck my dick, babe?’

‘Yes,’ Harry chokes out.

‘No lube, right?’

‘Yes.’

‘No condom. Just me.’

‘Yes. Yes. Yes.’

‘Suck me until I’m wet enough. Then what, Harry? Tell me.’

‘Fuck me.’

‘Say it.’

‘I want you to fuck me,’ Harry begs and it makes Zayn moan.

‘Shit, Harry. _Fuck_.’

‘Are you close?’

‘So close.’

‘Not yet.’ Harry pants. ‘Wait for me.’

‘Talk to me. Tell me what you want.’

‘You.’

‘Yeah?’

‘Inside me.’

Harry hears a _Hmmmm_ through the phone.

‘I want you to fuck me. You wanna fuck me, Zayn?’

‘Yes.’

‘How? How do you want me?’

‘Everywhere. In my bed, my car, at the station, on my desk.’

‘Yeah?’

‘Want you. Want you everywhere.’

‘Oh yeah.’ Harry has to stop to lick his lips, his mouth dry. ‘I’d let you do whatever you want to me. Anything. Hold me down. Pull my hair. Do you want to pull my hair?’

‘Yes.’

‘Pull it, Zayn. Bend me over and fuck me so hard it hurts.’

‘Harry.’

‘Oh yeah. Wanna feel it. Make me feel it.’

‘No,’ Zayn breathes. ‘Slow.’

‘Slow?’

‘Real slow.’

Harry’s fingers still.

‘Want you on your back, like you are now, so I can see you.’

Harry’s whole body trembles as he imagines him over him, between his legs.

‘Wanna kiss you. Kiss your mouth, your neck.’

Harry can almost feel it, his breath, his tongue against his.

‘Wanna see your face when I slide into you the first time, see your eyes close and your mouth open. Wanna see how red your cheeks get.’

Harry nods.

‘Wanna feel your fingers digging into my hips, holding me still so you can feel me, then pulling me into you when you want more.’

‘Zayn.’

‘What do you want, Harry?’

‘Everything.’

‘Everything?’

‘Everything. Whatever you’ll give me.’

‘Take it all, babe,’ Zayn whimpers. ‘You can have it all.’

‘I’m so close. Keep talking. Keep talking,’ he begs, his breathing wild. He’s never felt this way with anyone, so safe yet so completely out of control all at once.

‘Zayn, keep talking. I can’t. I can’t-’

Harry’s gone.

Done for.

‘Wanna fuck you.’ Zayn tells him. ‘Gonna fuck you. Gonna fuck you.’

That’s all he’s saying – _Gonna fuck you_ – over and over until Harry is shuddering.

‘Zayn, please.’

‘Tell me. Tell you what you want.’

‘Come in me. Fucking come in me.’

‘Harry,’ he calls out with a broken gasp.

Then all he’s saying is his name.

 

+++

 

Zayn Face Times him the next morning while he’s getting ready for work. Harry’s only had about an hours sleep but as soon as he sees his name flash up on his phone, he is revived.

He answers with a dopey smile. ‘Morning.’

‘So,’ Zayn says, with an equally dopey smile. He looks _obscene_ , lying in bed with his hand behind his head, giving Harry a full view of the tattoos on his chest, the sheet covering just enough to let Harry see a glimpse of dark hair. ‘This is how you look in the morning.’

Harry tilts his head at the screen and grins. ‘Flawless.’

Zayn wrinkles his nose and laughs and Harry has to stop himself kissing the screen.

‘What you doing tonight?’

Harry sighs theatrically. ‘I have a hot date with a basket of laundry. You?’

‘I’m not needed in court today so I should be able to get off early.’

‘Yeah?’

‘I can pick you up from school.’

Harry pulls a face. ‘That sounds so wrong.’

‘Right?’ Zayn pulls one too. ‘Never saying that again.’

‘Just call it work.’

‘Okay. I can pick you up from _work_. What time?’

‘Four?’

‘Cool.’

‘See ya later.’

As Harry is about to hang up, Zayn smirks and says, ‘Hey.’

The hair on Harry’s arms bristle. ‘Hey.’

‘Last night was.’

‘Yeah.’

Zayn’s smirk softens to a smile. ‘Yeah.’

When he doesn’t hang up, Harry’s gaze narrows. ‘What?’

‘I was just thinking.’

‘About what?’

‘How glad I am that you wore that awful Hawaiian shirt last week.’

Harry smiles smugly. ‘Told you it was my lucky shirt.’

 

+++

 

Harry’s still smiling to himself when he heads out of the bedroom, patting the pockets of his coat to check that he has his phone and keys. When he grabs his scarf off the kitchen table he sees one of the brown envelopes. He pulls out a chair, going to put it back on top of the cupboard with the other one, but as he does, he feels that the two envelopes are already there. He takes them down to check then looks at the third envelope in his hand, his heart hammering when he realises that it’s another letter.

Another letter _inside_ his flat.

Not on the doormat, but on the kitchen table.

He leaves the others where they are and climbs down from the chair. He stares at the brown envelope for a moment, telling himself that he’s mad, that it’s just a bill, something from the council. But there’s his name written across it in neat capital letters.

Then all he can hear is the sound of paper tearing as he pulls the letter out of the envelope and unfolds it.

 

_DO YOU THINK YOUR BIG BRAVE POLICEMAN BOYFRIEND CAN SAVE YOU?_

_I CAN GET TO YOU ANY TIME I WANT, HARRY._

_YOU’LL SEE_.

_YOU’LL SEE_.

 


	4. No surprises. No clowns. No toast.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a reminder to read the tags. Harry discusses his relationship with Rory in this chapter so it may be triggery for some.

+++

The letter falls out of his hand as Harry runs across the kitchen.

He checks the front door.

Checks it again.

And again.

And again.

And again.

It’s locked but he still checks it again, pulling the handle so hard he’s sure he’s going to rip the door right off it’s hinges. He’s so wild with adrenaline that he probably could, his jaw clenched so tightly that he doesn’t know how he hasn’t broken a fucking tooth. He tugs the handle again and the door rattles in its frame but doesn’t open. So he unlocks it, waits to hear the _THWICK_ as the key turns in the lock, then tries the handle again. The door opens easily, a rush of cold air coming up the stairs at him as he stands on the doormat and waits.

There’s no one there.

He shuts the door and locks it, waits to hear the _THWICK_ , then tries the handle. The door rattles but doesn’t open. So he unlocks it and opens it again.

Then closes it.

Opens it.

Closes it.

Opens it.

Closes it.

 

+++

 

Harry doesn’t know how many times he checks, too frantic to keep count as he does it one last time and moves onto the window in the living room. It’s useless, a wooden sash that quivers every time there’s a gust of wind, but the old lock is reassuringly sturdy, the layer of dust on the windowsill unbroken. Harry tries it anyway. It doesn’t open, of course. He knows it won’t, but he still has to check, even though the window looks down onto the street so Rory would have had to use a ladder to get through it. He could have, he could have done it in broad daylight and no one would have given a fuck, just walked under the ladder like it wasn’t there.

But that’s the Seven Sisters Road. It’s one of the busiest streets in London, people _everywhere_ , always in his way, the old ladies who stop to sniff the mangoes outside the market and the kids who push onto the bus before him. He’s used to it now, how it’s always moving, a river that rushes through North London and never stops. Harry could stand outside his front door bollock naked holding up a sign saying FREE MONEY and no one would notice so Rory could have used a ladder to get through the window, but there’s _no way_ his landlord wouldn’t notice. His living room window is directly under Harry’s so if Rory had propped a ladder against it, his landlord would have been out there like a shot to ask him what he was doing. That’s one good thing about the miserable bastard, Ed always says, he’s better than a guard dog.

The bedroom window looks down on to the street as well, but Harry checks it anyway. Then checks the door that leads onto the fire escape even though it has bolts at the top and bottom, which are locked too. The bathroom window is painted shut, but he checks that as well, the tiled walls still sweating from the shower he took earlier. He’s running his fingers around the frame when he hears a knock on the front door and jumps so suddenly he knocks a bottle off the edge of the bath. It bounces on the floor and lands on the rug, the lid opening as it does, spewing shampoo everywhere. ‘Shit,’ he mutters, but then he hears another knock and his heart jumps into his throat. This one is louder, so loud that it sends a fresh flood of panic crashing through him. He tells himself to breathe, but he can’t, he’s trapped, his whole body weak as he looks up at the window, wishing it wasn’t painted shut afterall.

He needs to get out of the bath before the panic takes hold. He doesn’t have long, he knows, his breathing already so shallow that in a few seconds he won’t be able to see for the blotches of white light that will fill the room like snow. _It’s just Ed_ , he tells himself, lifting his chin to look across at the open door. _I’m late and he’s worried and he’s come to see if I’m okay_. _It’s just Ed_ , he repeats, calculating the number of steps between him and it. He can be out of the room in a few strides. Then he only needs to take a few more and he can get out through the fire escape. _Ten steps_ , he tells himself. _Fifteen at the most_.

He presses his palm to the wall to steady himself, but as he’s about to climb over the edge of the bath the knocking turns to pounding. He freezes, his leg still in the air, but when he hears someone telling him to open the door, he lets go of a breath as the panic evaporates into fury. Harry almost tells him to fuck off as he clambers out of the bath, but barks, ‘I’m coming’ instead because he knows that if he ignores him, he’ll just use his key and come in anyway.

‘What?’ he hisses, unlocking the front door and opening it with a scowl.

‘What are you doing?’ His landlord scowls back. ‘Why are you slamming the doors?’

Before Harry can tell him to mind his own business, he points past him into the flat.

‘And what’s that? What have you done now?’

‘What?’ Harry looks back at the trail of shampooy footprints he’s left from the bedroom door through the living room and rolls his eyes. ‘Nothing.’

‘It doesn’t look like nothing, Harry! It’s all over the carpet!’ His landlord is tiny, at least a foot and a half shorter than Harry, but he still manages to fill the doorway, a wall of hissing, scowling, Greek fury. ‘You’d better clean that up!’

‘I will.’

He doesn’t mean to whine, but it’s like being told off for not cleaning his room.

‘January 5th.’ His landlord points at him. ‘One month and then you’re gone!’

One month and two days, actually. But he doesn’t need to know that he’s counting too.

‘Maybe.’ Harry shrugs.

‘What do you mean _maybe_?’ His landlord glares at him, his face red. ‘I told you the last time you tried this, Harry: I don’t respond well to threats.’

‘It’s not a threat.’ Except it is, he knows, but this is too much fun. ‘Like I said last week, just ‘cos you’ve given me a section 21 notice doesn’t mean I have to leave straightaway.’

‘And like _I_ said last week,’ his landlord counters, jabbing his finger at the air between them, ‘one way or the other, you’re leaving on January 5 th.’

Harry remembers the encounter well. He was getting ready to meet Ed at the pub for the quiz night. He’d already had a boozy lunch with his sister so when his landlord came up to complain about his music, he couldn’t resist showing him the stuff she’d printed off the internet about tenant’s rights. His landlord was horrified when Harry said that he didn’t have to leave, vowing to get him out one way or the other before stomping back down the stairs.

Harry smiles fondly as he thinks about it.

‘What’s so funny?’ his landlord growls. ‘You think this is a joke. This is my home!’

‘No, it’s _my home_ ,’ Harry reminds him. ‘As long as I’m paying rent, it’s my home and you can’t come in here when I’m not in.’

‘I have to! You go to work and leave your music blaring!’

‘I don’t.’

He does.

‘And I know it was you who emailed my school, telling them I’m gay!’

‘You’re paranoid!’

He is but not about this. It can’t be a coincidence that the morning after his landlord found out he was gay, Harry’s headmistress got an anonymous email telling her as much.

He doesn’t deny it, just huffs. ‘Why would I do that, Harry?’

‘To get me fired!’

‘Why would I want to get you fired?’

‘So I can’t pay my rent and have to move out!’ Harry is yelling now. He’s furious with himself for losing his temper, but this is what Rory used to do when he confronted him about something – answer the question with a question – and it drives him fucking nuts.

‘You’re crazy!’ His landlord taps his temple with his finger. ‘Fucking paranoid!’

Rory used to do that as well and it makes Harry so mad he feels lightheaded.

‘Do you think I want to live here? Above a pathetic homophobic prick who comes into my flat when I’m not here and does God knows what.’

‘Then go!’

‘No!’ Harry roars. ‘As long as me being here winds you up, I’m staying!’

‘I knew it!’ When his landlord’s jaw clenches, Harry tries not to smile as he realises that the power has shifted back to him. ‘You’re doing this on purpose! You think this is a joke!’

‘I don’t. I’m just reminding you that if I dispute the section 21 notice, we'll have to go to court and it could take up to _six months_ to get me out of here.’

When he emphasises _six months_ , his landlord looks like he’s about to have a stroke.

‘Not this again!’

His face goes from red to purple and Harry smiles sweetly. ‘What?’

‘I told you last week, you can’t do that! You can’t dispute it!’

‘I think you’ll find I can.’

His gaze narrows. ‘You wouldn’t.’

‘Wouldn’t I?’

‘Haven’t you got the message?’ He looks at Harry like he’s insane. ‘You’re not welcome here.’ It’s the first time he’s said it out loud and it makes something in Harry tense. ‘So let me be clear because I obviously wasn’t when you tried this last week: you’re leaving on January 5th.’

‘You can’t _make_ me leave,’ Harry says with more conviction than he actually feels, his bravado buckling. ‘What are you going to do? Drag me out by my hair?’

‘You’ll see.’

Harry’s smile slips. ‘Will I?’

‘You don’t know what I’m capable of, Harry.’

‘Now _that_ sounds like a threat.’

His landlord doesn’t miss a beat. ‘Because it is.’

 

+++

 

When his landlord leaves, Harry has to start checking again. By the time he’s done, he’s an hour late and has three missed calls; two from Ed and one from Nigel, the deputy head. ‘Bollocks,’ he mutters under his breath as he closes the door behind him, locks it, checks it and heads down the stairs. Even if he runs, he’ll still have missed his first lesson. He wonders who’s covering for him. Probably one of the teaching assistants who’ll read them The Tiger Who Came to Tea while they huff and fidget. They’ll be furious. On Wednesday mornings they do the Great Finsbury Park Bake Off, which they _love_. Last week they made Funny Face Pizzas and this week they were supposed to make cup cakes. It’s a neat way for them to learn about measuring and counting without them knowing that they’re learning about measuring and counting.

He feels awful. They could still do it this afternoon, he thinks, taking his phone out of his coat pocket to call Ed. He can’t call him now, he remembers, he’ll be teaching, but as he’s opening a new text, he looks up in time to avoid an old woman coming towards him with a shopping trolley. ‘Sorry,’ he mumbles, stepping out of her way, but before he looks down at his phone, he realises that he’s walking past Finsbury Park, the opposite direction from the school. It takes him a moment to realise where he’s going, and when he does, he fires off a text to Ed.

 

_Got to sort something out. Tell Nigel I’m sick. I’ll explain later. H_

 

+++

 

The nearest police station is actually in Tottenham. Harry’s never been to it, but he knows that because every year they do this thing at school where the police come in and talk to the kids. Not that they listen, they just want to get in the police car and turn on the blue lights. But it’s a nice thought given how suspicious people around here are of the police. Last time, Max turned up in a t-shirt with a pig on it and Harry had to hide in the toilet he was laughing so much.

It’s almost three miles away, he realises when he checks Google Maps, which will take him the best part of an hour. He should get the bus, but the walk is doing him good, the cold nipping at his cheeks and the tips of his ears in a way that makes him think of walking to school with Ed when they were kids, back when all they had to worry about was whether they were going to get a snow day. The Seven Sisters Road is reassuringly busy, Harry ducking and weaving between the steady stream of people making their way to work or back home after dropping their kids off at school. No one notices him, his head down and his hands stuffed into the pockets of his coat as he counts each step – one, two, three, four, stop to walk around the dog tied up outside the newsagent, five, six, seven – and that’s the way he wants it.

By the time he reaches the police station, he’s out of breath, either from the cold or the panic he can feel punching at his chest as he summons the will to walk in. He’s never been inside a police station – he’s never needed to – so his experience is limited to what he’s seen in on the telly. Needless to say, it’s nothing like that. The building itself is quite nice, actually, a Victorian redbrick with sash windows not unlike the ones in his flat, the Union Jack twisted around the flag pole sticking out under the roof like an acupuncture needle. (Acupuncture is something else Ed made him try. It was surprisingly relaxing but didn’t help a bit.)

Inside, is more what he expected: fucking grim. The door opens into a reception area that’s painted white. Or it was white once, now it’s the colour his sports socks go when they’re on their way out. Overwashed white, if that’s even a thing. He’s been teaching so long that he can’t help but find ‘normal’ offices thoroughly depressing. Harry’s classroom is a riot of colour, from the red lino floor to the green paper mache dragon on top of the bookcase, his tongue curling out through his teeth like a party blower. He could never work somewhere like this.

Thanks to watching too many episodes of Law and Order with Ed, he thought it would be chaotic, drunks singing and surly prostitutes smacking on gum while they file their nails, but all the blue plastic chairs are empty. He’s the only one in there, him and a police officer who’s standing behind the counter, shuffling through some paperwork. That sounds more welcoming that it is. The counter is surrounded by glass, like in the bank, a microphone sticking out so Harry can be heard. Not that he can say anything, his breathing ragged.

‘Can I help you?’ the officer asks with a sniff.

He doesn’t look up but Harry still tugs off his knitted beanie (out of what? Respect?) wringing it in his hands and taking a breath before launching into the speech he’s prepared.

‘I-’ he starts to say, then stops because despite going over it on the walk from his flat, he suddenly has no idea how to put it all into words. All he can say is, ‘I need help.’

 

+++

 

‘Hey! The Watermelon Guy!’

Harry guesses that most people who come in off the street don’t get to speak to a detective but as soon as the officer behind the counter realises who he is, he gets on the phone saying, ‘Chappers will shit himself.’ Chappers – aka Detective Stuart Chapman – doesn’t do that, mercifully, but he is thrilled to see Harry, slapping him on the back before buzzing him in. He reminds Harry a little of his step-dad, Robin, which immediately puts him at ease.

Once he’s out of the reception area, the rest of the station looks pretty much how he imagined it. _This is more like it_ , Harry thinks, as he’s led into what Chappers rather generously refers to as an ‘interview suite’. It’s actually a small windowless room with fluorescent lighting and a desk in the middle. Chappers sits on one side of it, gesturing at him to sit on the other.

‘What brings you here, Harry? You looking for a job?’

Harry chuckles lightly.

‘We’ve got your photo up in the break room.’ Chappers nods toward the door. ‘You’re quite the hero ‘round here. We could do with more men like you. Balls of fucking steel!’

‘Not quite.’ Harry blushes, putting his satchel on the desk between them.

‘So how can I help?’

‘Well.’ He stops to take a breath. ‘You know who I am, which helps.’

Chappers nods.

‘Obviously a lot of people do.’

‘Bet you’re loving it, right? I would.’

He winks and it makes Harry’s fingers slip as he unbuttons his coat.

‘Yeah. Um.’ He has to stop again, his cheeks even hotter. ‘That’s kind of why I’m here.’

Chappers frowns.

‘The attention,’ Harry explains, shrugging off his coat. ‘It’s become a little too much.’

‘Too much?’

‘I’ve been getting these letters.’

‘Letters?’

Harry unbuckles his satchel and pulls out the first one. Chappers takes it, his eyebrows rising as he reads it. Harry holds his breath as he waits, but he just shrugs.

‘I wouldn’t worry, mate. It’s probably some nutter.’

He tries to hand it back but Harry won’t take it. ‘It was hand delivered.’

‘To where?’

‘My flat.’

Chappers strokes his moustache, considering it with a deep frown.

‘They get worse,’ Harry goes on, taking the other two letters out of his satchel.

He shakes his head as he reads them then looks up at Harry. ‘Who’s Zayn?’

‘My boyfriend.’

It takes him a second, but when Chappers realises what Harry’s saying – that the super brave watermelon wielding Harry Styles is gay – his whole demeanour changes.

‘Oh,’ he says, shifting in his chair like it’s made of nails.

Harry raises an eyebrow. ‘Oh?’

‘Well.’ Chappers catches himself, clearing his throat and looking down at the letters in his hand to avoid Harry’s gaze. ‘Like I said, it’s probably just some nutter.’

‘I don’t think so.’ Harry shakes his head. ‘I think it’s my ex-boyfriend.’

He waits for Chappers to look at him, but he doesn’t. ‘Yeah?’

‘This is the sort of thing he’d do.’

‘Have you tried talking to him?’

‘He threatened to cut me open. Why would I talk to him?’

‘We find that in these situations it’s often best to confront the person.’

‘You want me to _confront_ him?’

‘Not in an aggressive way. Just talk to him, let him know that it’s upsetting you.’

‘Wait.’ Harry is astonished. ‘You think that someone who can send letters like this,’ he stops to point across the desk at them, his lips parts, ‘can be _reasoned_ with?’

Chappers rolls his eyes, clearly done. ‘Just man up and tell him to fuck off.’

‘Man up?’ Harry feels sick.

A minute ago he was hero.

‘Just be clear with him.’

‘I found the latest one on my kitchen table this morning. He was _in_ my flat.’

‘Does he have a key?’

‘Of course he doesn’t have a key! I moved to London to get away from him.’

‘I don’t think this is a matter for the police.’

When Chappers shakes his head and tries to hand the letters back to him, Harry recoils like they’re on fire. ‘You don’t think this is a matter for the police? He broke into my flat.’

‘Did he do any damage?’

‘No.’

‘Did he take anything?’

‘Not that I know of.’

‘Has he approached you?’

Harry’s hands twist around his beanie. ‘No.’

‘Have you seen him at all?’

‘No. But he called me on Sunday.’

‘Did he threaten you?’

‘No. But-’

‘Then there’s nothing we can do.’

When he shrugs, Harry stares across the desk at him, his mouth open as he thinks of the police officers who came to his school last month. _We catch the bad guys, that’s what we do_. But Chappers doesn’t look at him, just puts the letters down on the desk between them.

‘He hasn’t done anything we can arrest him for.’

‘He broke into my flat.’ Harry says it as slowly and as clearly as he can, like he does when he’s telling one of the kids in his class off so they understand what they’ve done wrong.

‘But there’s no proof of that, Sir.’

 _Sir_.

He says it like he’s a bank manager, turning Harry down for a loan.

‘So I’m lying?’

‘I didn’t say that, but I can’t arrest someone because you _think_ they did something.’

‘So you can’t arrest him until he actually cuts me open?’

Chappers doesn’t look at him, just stands up and opens the door.

 

+++

 

Harry waits until he’s outside the station before he lets himself cry. As soon as the door closes behind him, he stops on the pavement and wails. He manages to cover his mouth with his hand before it can get out, but his shoulders betray him, shaking violently as the tears burn down his cheeks. It feels like every bit of him is shaking, actually, like someone’s taken him by the collar of his coat and is shaking him so hard his feet don’t touch the ground.

He has to lean against the iron railings outside the station to steady himself, letting his hair fall forward so he can hide behind it as he cries and cries. He can’t help but wonder what Chappers would think if he saw him, if he’d tut and shake his head. He’s probably gone into the break room to take his picture down, tell everyone Harry’s a fag when they ask why. A fag who can’t even deal with his ex-boyfriend without running to the police for help. He should never have gone. Why did he go? Ed was right: this is what Rory wants, to show Harry how pathetic he is, how helpless. To make him feel like it’s all in his head.

And he fucking fell for it.

 

+++

 

It feels like a long time before Harry can compose himself enough to stand up straight. He’s aware of people around him, going in and out of the police station or just walking down the high road like he isn’t there, a pebble on the bed of a stream. He wonders if Rory is nearby, if he followed him from the flat and waited outside the police station. He’s probably watching him now, smiling as Harry wipes his face with the sleeve of his coat.

Fuck you, Harry thinks as he does. I’m not letting you do this to me again. So he forces himself to lift his chin and push his shoulders back, determined not to give him the satisfaction of seeing him like this. But just as he takes a breath and turns, he walks straight into someone.

‘Sorry,’ he murmurs, then jumps when he feels them cup his elbows with their hands.

‘Hey.’ He looks up to find it’s Zayn. ‘It’s me.’

‘Oh.’ He sniffs. ‘Hey.’

Zayn frowns. ‘What’s wrong?’

‘Nothing.’

‘What are you doing here?’

Harry can feel fresh tears building and can’t look at him. ‘I’m late for work.’

He tries to push past him, but Zayn doesn’t let him. ‘Are you crying?’

When Harry doesn’t respond and hides behind his hair, Zayn says, ‘Come on, babe,’ and tries to lead him back into the police station.

Harry goes rigid. ‘I’m not going back in there.’

‘Okay,’ Zayn says softly.

‘I can’t go back in there.’

‘Okay,’ he says again. ‘Let’s go sit in my car. You’re fucking shaking.’

He is, his legs weak as Zayn leads him around the side of the police station to the car park. As soon as they’re in his car, Harry feels better – _safer_. He knows this seat, knows where to rest his arm on the door, the seat in the same position it was in after Zayn moved it back the first time he got in so Harry would have more legroom. He closes his eyes, taking a shaky breath as Zayn turns on the heat. As soon as he does, Harry reaches out to press his fingers to the vent in an effort to revive his stiff fingers. Zayn watches, but doesn’t say a word, obviously waiting for Harry to say something first, but he can’t.

He can’t.

So they sit in silence for a while, watching the bloke in a suit standing by the back door of the police station. He’s smoking a cigarette and Harry wonders if Zayn needs one, wonders how often he needs one when they’re together, if he wishes Harry would shut up about whatever the fuck he’s rambling on about so he can go outside and have one.

‘What’s that?’ Zayn asks.

When Harry looks up he’s nodding at the letters, which are his hand. He doesn’t even remember taking them, just trying to get out of the tiny room as quickly as he could.

Harry’s fingers curl around them. ‘Nothing.’

‘Is that why you’re here?’

Harry hesitates, looking at them so he doesn’t have to look at Zayn. He should lie, he knows, he should just smile and tell Zayn that nothing’s wrong, ask him if he’s hungry because he’s starving. That’s what Ed would want him to do, he’d remind Harry that they’d just met, that it’s too soon to drag Zayn into his drama, that he’d run a fucking mile if he knew what was going on. Harry doesn’t want him to run, but Cath would want him to be honest, he’s sure, she’d ask him if it’s fair to keep Zayn in the dark given that Rory knows who he is now.

‘Harry?’

He says it so gently that Harry finds himself nodding.

‘Can I see?’

Harry starts to raise his hand but stops, knowing that if he tells him about Rory then he’ll have to tell him about everything else and he doesn’t want to tell him about everything else because Zayn’s the one person in his life who doesn’t know about that stuff. He was Harry’s fresh start, his blank page. The only one who thought he was normal.

‘Maybe I can help, Harry.’

He gives him the letters because he has to, because it’s too late, things are fucked either way. They’re fucked as soon as Zayn reads them, but if he lies, Zayn will know he’s lying and things will never be the same because he’ll think Harry doesn’t trust him. So he waits, watching Zayn’s face as he reads them, waiting for it to change.

‘When did you get these?’ he asks with a frown.

‘I got the first one on Sunday night.’

‘The night we met?’

Harry nods.

‘Is there a postmark?’

Harry shakes his head. ‘They were hand delivered.’

‘To where?’

‘My flat.’

‘Through the front door or your door?’

‘My door.’

Zayn’s jaw clenches and Harry wants to stop there, wants to laugh and take the letters back, tell him not to worry about it, that it’s nothing.

But it’s not nothing.

‘I found this one,’ Harry points at it, ‘on the kitchen table this morning.’

‘ _Inside_ your flat?’

Harry nods.

‘Was the door locked?’

Harry nods again.

‘Are you sure?’

If Harry could laugh, he would. ‘I checked.’

‘Okay,’ Zayn murmurs, and it sounds like he’s trying to reassure himself not Harry.

‘That’s why I’m here, to report it.’

‘Who did you speak to?’

‘Someone called Chappers.’

He rolls his eyes. ‘No wonder you’re crying.’ Harry looks away, his cheeks flushing and Zayn sighs softly. ‘I mean Chappers is useless. He’s the worst person you could have spoken to. He’s three years from retirement so just sits at his desk reading the paper all day.’

Harry turns his cheek to look at him again and Zayn smiles. ‘He’s a prick.’

‘Tell me about it.’

When Harry’s eyes widen, Zayn frowns again. ‘What did he say?’

‘To man up and sort it out myself.’

Zayn arches an eyebrow. ‘He said what?’

‘He said it wasn’t a matter for the police.’

‘Fuck him,’ Zayn says tightly, holding the letters up. ‘If someone’s following you and breaking into your flat to leave letters like this, it’s a matter for the fucking police.’

‘I thought so,’ Harry agrees with a small shrug.

‘Why didn’t you tell me, babe?’

‘I thought he’d get the message if I ignored him.’

‘Who?’

Harry hesitates, tugging on his bottom lip with his fingers.

‘Babe,’ Zayn murmurs, reaching over to move Harry’s hand away.

‘My ex.’ He has to spit it out, scared that if he doesn’t, he won’t be able to say it.

‘Your ex?’

‘I’m sorry. I should’ve told you.’ Harry’s shoulders fall. ‘But we just met. I didn’t want-’

When he starts playing with his bottom lip again, Zayn stops him. ‘Didn’t what?’

‘I didn’t want to drag you into it.’

‘I’m in it. He knows who I am. He knows I work for the police. He’s watching me too.’

That hadn’t occurred to Harry but he’s right.

‘I’m sorry.’ He covers his face with his hands. ‘I’m so sorry.’

‘Babe, I’m not having a go at you.’ It’s so gentle – so tender – that it brings fresh tears to Harry’s eyes. ‘I’m just saying that I could have helped. More than fucking Chappers, anyway.’

‘I’m sorry.’

‘Don’t apologise, babe.’ His voice is even softer and Harry has to blink away the tears before he sees them. ‘You’re right, we just met. You weren’t to know how I was going to react. I’m just letting you know that you can tell me stuff like this. I’m not going to freak out.’

Harry chuckles sourly. ‘I’m freaking out.’

‘Well don’t.’

Zayn laughs, leaning over to press a kiss to his cheek. The shock of it makes Harry tense and when Zayn pulls away, he wants to reach out for the collar of his coat, tell him he’s sorry, that he surprised him, and pull him into a proper kiss. But the moment’s gone.

‘Listen.’ He waits for Harry to look at him again. ‘Are we doing this?’

‘Yes.’

He doesn’t hesitate and Zayn smiles loosely, his cheeks a little pinker. ‘Then you should know that I’m a fucking _terrible_ boyfriend.’

Harry wasn’t expecting that and blinks at him.

‘I know what you’re thinking, but don’t let my perfectly proportioned face fool you.’ He points at it and sighs theatrically. ‘I’m an asshole.’

Harry tilts his head at him as if to say, _Yeah right_.

‘Oh believe me,’ Zayn raises his eyebrows, ‘I am.’

‘Okay.’ Harry makes the word sound about a minute long and Zayn laughs again.

‘Seriously,’ he says with a small sigh. ‘This police thing is super cool right now because I can park wherever I want and knock off early to meet you after work, but trust me, it’s going to get real old real quick.’ Harry obviously doesn’t look convinced because he goes on. ‘You’ll see when I’m called into work when we’re halfway through dinner – or worse, halfway through sex – I want you to remember this conversation because you’re going to want to kill me.’

‘Trust me, you won’t be able to answer your phone when we’re having sex.’

Harry manages a smirk and Zayn’s eyes light up. ‘How about when I can’t get time off because it’s your birthday or to go on holiday?’

‘I’m a teacher,’ Harry reminds him. ‘I’m not allowed to have time off during term time unless someone dies.’

‘How about when I’m working on a case and I’m distracted and can’t sleep and say, “Nothing” every time you ask me what’s wrong?’

‘I never fucking sleep. We can do yoga together.’

‘I don’t do yoga.’ Zayn shakes his head. ‘Or exercise of any kind, actually. I’m disgusting like that.’

‘Disgusting? Once I didn’t leave my flat for five days.’

‘I can’t swim.’

‘I can’t drive.’

‘No, you don’t understand, babe: I’m _scared_ of water. Won’t go near it.’

‘And I’m scared of driving. I’m terrified that I’m going to kill someone.’

‘That works out well because I don’t let anyone drive my car.’

‘I don’t want to drive your car.’

‘Good. But I’ll still complain that I have to drive everywhere.’

‘And I’ll ignore you.’

Zayn nods. ‘And I hate surprises.’

‘Me too. If you ever throw me a surprise party, I’ll leave you.’

‘Same. And don’t get me a clown.’

‘You’re twenty-four. Why the fuck would I get you a clown?’

Zayn holds his hand up. ‘I’m just saying.’

‘Fine. No surprises. No clowns. Anything else?’

‘I can’t cook.’

‘Me either.’

‘Yes, but it won’t stop me critising your cooking.’

‘Good.’ Harry shrugs. ‘Fucking starve then.’

Zayn tries to fight a smile, but can’t. ‘I’ll let you make me breakfast though.’

‘You will? Lucky me.’

Zayn ignores him. ‘Just toast though. But I have to butter it myself.’

‘So no surprises. No clowns. No toast.’

Zayn pouts and it’s so adorable Harry wants to kiss him. ‘I want toast though.’

‘Make it yourself!’

‘This is what I’m saying.’ Zayn presses a hand to his chest. ‘I’m an unreasonable asshole, especially in the morning. Seriously. Don’t talk to me until I’ve had a cigarette and a cup of tea.’

‘I won’t.’

‘And I’m a sloppy drunk.’

‘Me too.’

‘And I don’t dance.’

‘I do. You won’t want me to but I do.’

Zayn looks worried, but carries on. ‘And I’m the worst person to buy presents for. If I want it, I buy it myself.’

‘No surprises. No clowns. No toast. No presents.’

‘I want presents though. I just won’t like anything you buy me.’

‘You’re getting a blowjob and a smile for Christmas, then.’

Zayn tries not to laugh. ‘And this is the worst one: I’m a total mama’s boy.’

‘Me too,’ Harry grins. ‘I speak to her every day.’

‘It’s not even lunchtime and I’ve already spoken to my mum three times.’

‘What is this? Are you trying to put me off or something?’

‘No!’ Zayn smiles so hard his nose wrinkles. ‘I’m just warning you.’

‘Consider me warned.’

‘So in conclusion: I’m a shit boyfriend. But do you know what I’m good at?’ He holds up the letters. ‘This sort of stuff but you have to tell me otherwise I can’t help, okay?’ Harry nods and Zayn tilts his head at him. ‘Still not going to tell me, huh?’

Harry opens his mouth, but nothing comes out and he looks at his feet.

‘It’s okay.’

‘I’m sorry,’ Harry mumbles pathetically.

‘It’s okay.’ Zayn leans over to kiss his cheek again. ‘I know someone who can help.’

 

+++

 

They drive in silence. It’s not awkward, just quiet, the stillness interrupted every now and then as Zayn hisses at a driver who tries to cut him up. He hasn’t said where they’re going and Harry hasn’t asked, too scared to open his mouth in case Zayn realises how scared he is. He tries not to think about it, tries to do the breathing exercises Cath taught him, tries to distract himself by reciting the alphabet in his head over and over and over until the letters melt together.

 _Don’t_ , he tells himself. _Please. Not now_. But the panic is building, his chest getting tighter and tighter until it starts to hurt. He gulps down a breath, hoping it will help because he’s about two minutes away from having a full blown panic attack right here in the car, in front of Zayn, and he can’t. But he can feel it. It’s like standing on a railway track, listening to the approaching train and waiting for it to hit him.

It’s coming.

It’s coming.

It’s coming.

So he turns his face to look out the window, counting the lamp posts as they flick by. One, two, three, four. When Zayn turns onto the Whitechapel Road, he realises where they are, gazing at the market stalls lining the pavement. It’s not unlike the Seven Sisters Road, a lusty melee of chatter and laughter as people stop to buy brown paper bags of okra and handfuls of chili. But instead of Kano and Beenie Man, he can hear bhangra. It’s obviously a song Zayn likes because his shoulders start moving and Harry can hear him murmuring the words as they wait at a traffic light. Harry wants to ask him about it, ask him to sing it for him so he doesn’t have to think about the panic swelling in his chest, but he can’t even find the breath to say that much.

Zayn turns onto the Mile End Road, which is quieter, the stalls gone so Harry can see the reflection of the car in the shop windows as they pass. They look much the same as the ones on the Whitechapel Road, most of the signs in what he guesses is Arabic. But because it’s so quiet, the men standing on the pavement outside the mini cab office stop smoking and the women in saris outside the market stop deliberating between clumps of coriander, eyeing Zayn’s shiny black car suspiciously as it rolls past. Harry wonders if they know it’s a police car or if they think Zayn’s another developer who’s in the area to snap up another house on the cheap so he can do it up and sell it for twice the price to a white couple with a pug.

They finally pull up outside a door that only distinguishes itself from the others on the street with the brass numbers on the wall next to it.

Zayn gets out of the car first. Harry has to as well, he knows, but he has to take a few deep breaths before he can summon the strength take his seatbelt off. When he eventually climbs out, Zayn is waiting on the pavement with a careful smile.

‘It’s okay, babe,’ he says, reaching for his hand and squeezing it. ‘Naz can help.’

 _Who’s Naz?_ he wants to ask, but nods as Zayn leads him to the door and presses the buzzer.

‘It’s me,’ he says when a man answers.

‘Come on up.’

There’s another buzz which he feels in his teeth as Zayn opens the door. The hall is small and ominously dark, so dark that Harry would probably turn and run if Zayn wasn’t holding his hand. Zayn heads up the narrow staircase first, each step creaking twice as Harry follows. He must feel how much Harry’s shaking because he looks over his shoulder and squeezes his hand, which Harry reciprocates because he can’t summon the breath to say thank you.

They’re met at the top of the stairs by a guy about their age.

‘As-Salaam-Alaikum,’ he says.

‘Wa-Alaikum-Salaam,’ Zayn says back, letting go of Harry’s hand to hug him. ‘This is Harry,’ he says, reaching for it again. ‘Harry, this is Naz, a good friend of mine.’

‘Hello, Harry,’ Naz says, holding out his hand. ‘Welcome to Imaan.’

 

+++

 

Imaan, Naz explains when they’re settled in his office, a room not much bigger than Harry’s bathroom and just as cold, is a support group for LGBT Muslims.

‘I know you’re not Muslim,’ Zayn says with a light laugh before Harry can object, ‘but I’ve been working with Naz for years and I trust him. Whatever’s going on, he can help.’

Harry nods warily, but when Zayn lets go of his hand and stands up, his heart thumps.

‘I’m going to wait in the car, okay?’ he thumbs over his shoulder. ‘Take your time.’

Harry must give him the look the kids at school give their parents on their first day because Zayn reaches down to kiss his cheek then smiles gently.

‘I think you’ll be more honest if I’m not here.’

Harry would disagree but he can’t catch his breath.

‘It’s okay, babe,’ he says, sweeping his thumb across Harry’s hot cheek.

Then he’s gone.

Harry watches the door close then turns to Naz.

‘Zayn’s right.’ He smiles, managing to find a notebook in the mess of his desk. ‘You can trust me. Whatever you tell me here, is confidential.’

Harry nods.

‘Zayn texted me, he said that you’re having some issues with your ex?’

Harry nods again.

‘And you tried to report it to the police, right?’ Harry nods. ‘But they fobbed you off?’

He finally finds his voice. ‘Yes.’

Naz seems pleased that he has, his smile softening.

‘Don’t take it personally, okay?’ he tells Harry. ‘You’re not alone. I’ve been volunteering here for eight years and that’s pretty common, especially for gay men. They just don’t know how to handle it. But I have contacts in the police who are much more sympathetic so don’t worry, okay?’ He waits for Harry to lift his chin and look at him. ‘We’ll get it sorted.’

‘So Zayn can’t help?’

‘He wants to,’ Naz says, hunting around for a pen. He settles for a chewed up black and yellow pencil. ‘But I told him to stay out of it because he cares about you. He’ll probably end up kicking the shit out of your ex which, while satisfying, won’t solve anything.’

 _He cares about me_.

Harry’s heart fizzes like a raspberry at the bottom of a champagne glass.

‘So you and I are going to go through it and I’ll file the report, okay?’

‘I care about him too,’ Harry blurts out then blushes when Naz looks up.

‘I hope so. He’s my best mate. You’d better not fuck him around.’ His frown softens to a smirk as he licks the tip of his pencil. ‘Right! Let’s start at the beginning, okay?’

Harry nods.

A lorry rolls past and Naz waits for the window to stop shaking before he continues.

‘What’s your ex’s name?’

‘Rory.’ Harry sucks in a breath. ‘Rory Renolds.’

‘Good.’ Naz nods, writing it down. ‘When did you meet?’

‘My first year of uni.’

‘Where? Here in London?’

‘No, Manchester.’

‘How did you meet? Was he on your course?’

‘This. Um.’ Harry gulps. ‘This is why I haven’t told Zayn. It’s complicated.’

‘Complicated?’

‘He was my counsellor.’

Naz’s eyebrows rise. ‘Your counsellor?’

‘I have some.’ Harry’s mouth is suddenly so dry he has to stop and lick his lips. ‘Some _problems_.’

‘Do you feel comfortable telling me about them?’

‘Not really,’ Harry chuckles, sticking his finger into the last button hole of his coat. Naz smiles, but doesn’t say anything, so Harry shrugs. ‘I don’t know when it started. There was no trigger or anything.’ He doesn’t mind telling Naz this bit, he knows this bit, this is the bit he’s been telling doctors and psychiatrists for years. ‘The first time I remember it happening, I was sitting in the backseat of the car with my sister. My mum was driving. I can’t remember where we were going, just being struck with this thought that she was going to crash the car. I was only six, so I couldn’t articulate it. I just started crying. I think she thought I was having a tantrum because she stopped the car and told me to calm down.’

When Harry looks up, Naz is nodding.

‘I started to have nightmares about it,’ he goes on, twisting his coat around his finger until it starts to feel numb. ‘It got so bad that every time she got in the car I’d cry and beg her not to. If I was with her, I’d be hysterical, but if I wasn’t, I’d be hysterical until she got home.’

‘What did your parents do about it?’

‘My dad used to yell at me.’ Harry tries to swallow the bead of pain in his throat at the memory. ‘He’d tell me to stop being a baby, to be a big boy. I think he thought it was her, that I was missing her.’ _Mama’s Boy_ , he hears Rory say and shivers. ‘But it got worse and worse. So my mum started walking everywhere, which helped, but then I started worrying that she was going to get sick, that she was going to get cancer, or something. So maybe it was about her.’

Naz nods. ‘You were terrified of losing her.’

‘Yes.’

It’s not the first time someone has told Harry that, but it is the first time he’s been told that after only talking to them for five minutes. It makes the muscles in his shoulders unclench.

‘Did they seek professional help?’

‘They took me to the doctor who said I had an overactive imagination.’ Naz rolls his eyes. ‘But when the panic attacks started I was referred to a child psychiatrist at the hospital.’

‘How old were you?’

‘Nine.’

‘Did it help?’

‘Nope.’ Harry shakes his head. ‘They thought I had ADHD and put me on Ritalin.’

Naz groans and shakes his head too.

‘It got better after that.’

He calls him on it immediately. ‘You mean you got better at hiding it.’

‘I guess.’ Harry manages a chuckle.

‘What did you do?’

‘I’d pinch myself every time I had a bad thought.’

Naz winces. ‘Ouch.’

‘Right?’ Harry huffs out a breath. ‘When I realised I was gay my thighs were so bruised my gym teacher called social services.’

‘How old were you then?’

‘Fourteen.’

‘Did you have anyone to talk to about it?’

He shakes his head. ‘My friend Ed but he’s a worrier so I stopped telling him stuff.’

‘Did you tell him that you thought you were gay?’

‘Yeah. I pretty much came out straight away.’

Naz seems surprised. ‘Really?’

‘Trust me.’ Harry shrugs. ‘When you spend 98% of your day trying not to tell your mother that you think she’s going to die in a gruesome way, admitting you like cock is no big deal.’

Naz laughs.

‘Ironically, the school calling social services was the best thing to happen because they were the first to notice my symptoms and ask the right questions. _Do you have frequent intrusive and unwelcome obsessional thoughts, Harry?_ That’s when I was diagnosed.’

‘OCD?’

Harry nods.

‘What level?’

‘Then it was severe. Now I hover between mild and moderate.’

‘That’s good.’

‘Yeah, but I can feel it’s getting worse. I’ve started checking again.’

‘From what Zayn’s told me about the letters you’ve received, I don’t blame you.’

Harry is so stunned he can’t respond, just look across the cluttered desk at him.

The relief is dizzying.

‘So you were referred to a counsellor?’

Harry nods.

‘And when you went to uni, you were referred to Rory?’

Harry nods again.

‘Was he helpful?’

‘He was _brilliant_.’ When Harry hears himself the back of his neck burns. He sounds like a breathless teenager. ‘When I moved into halls of residence I was really suffering,’ he goes on, more carefully this time. ‘New place, new people. My anxiety was through the roof. I was spending three or four hours a day checking. But Rory was so calm. He always knew what to say.’

‘And you fell in love with him.’

Harry feels it like a slap across the face and can only nod sheepishly.

‘It’s a perfectly natural response, Harry. More common than you realise.’

‘I didn’t pursue him or anything.’

‘What happened?’

‘We bumped into each other at a gig.’

‘And?’

‘We ended up kissing the whole night.’

‘How did you react?’

‘I was so happy. I don’t think I’d ever been that happy.’ Harry pulls his finger out of the buttonhole and rubs it. ‘I was obsessed with him, if you pardon the pun.’ He laughs bitterly. ‘Or maybe I was obsessed with him because it was part of my OCD, I don’t know.’

‘Is that something you do?’

‘Yeah.’ Harry nods. ‘I become fixated on stuff. Obsessed, I suppose.’

‘And you became fixated on Rory?’

‘I couldn’t stop thinking about him.’

‘Did he feel the same way?’

‘No.’ Harry looks at his hands. ‘I called him when I got home that night but he didn’t answer. I left him a message but he didn’t call back or reply to any of my texts or emails.’

‘When did you next see him?’

‘At our session the following week.’

‘What happened?’

‘He acted like nothing had happened.’

‘How did that make you feel?’

‘Like shit,’ Harry says, crossing his arms. ‘I thought it was in my head. That I imagined it, you know?’ Naz nods. ‘I wanted him so bad that I just _imagined_ we got together.’

‘Then what happened?’

‘I saw him again that weekend at the same club.’

‘Did you go there on purpose, hoping to see him?’

Harry bites down on a smirk.

‘Did he acknowledge you?’

‘If you call pulling me into the men’s toilets and sucking my dick acknowledging me.’

Harry can’t manage a smirk this time.

‘What happened after that?’

‘The same thing. He acted like nothing happened.’

‘How long did this go on for? Him hooking up with you then ignoring you?’

Harry huffs out a breath. ‘Weeks.’

‘Did you confront him about it?’

Harry nods.

‘In session?’

‘I had to.’

Harry doesn’t mean to sound defensive but it was the only time he’d acknowledge him.

‘What did he say?’

‘He asked me how I felt.’

‘Did you tell him?’

Harry nods.

‘That you loved him?’

‘I told him everything.’

‘And how did he react?’

Harry lifts his chin to look out the window. ‘We had sex.’

‘In his office?’

Harry nods.

‘Anal?’

Harry nods.

‘Was it your first time?’

‘Yeah.’

‘What happened afterwards?’

‘He said it couldn’t happen again.’ Harry shrugs. ‘That it was inappropriate.’

‘But it did.’

Harry nods. ‘Every week.’

‘You didn’t talk?’

‘He didn’t like it when I talked.’

‘No, I mean in your sessions, like we’re talking now.’

‘Oh.’ Harry blushes. ‘No. We just, you know?’

‘Did he refer you to another counsellor?’

Harry shakes his head.

‘Did you start seeing each other outside of his office?’

‘Every day. If he called, I’d drop whatever I was doing and meet him. I’d skip classes, blow off my friends, lie and say I was going home for the weekend when I was with him.’

‘And it was just sex?’

Harry can’t look at him, just nods.

‘You say that he didn’t like you to talk during sex. Why is that?’

‘He blamed me.’

‘For what?’

‘He said that it was my fault.’ Harry lifts his shoulder then lets it drop. ‘That he couldn’t keep away from me, that I was ruining his life.’

‘How did that make you feel?’

‘Special.’

‘Why did it make you feel special?’

‘I don’t know,’ Harry says with a sullen sigh, but he knows. ‘I guess.’ He uncrosses his arms and sighs again. ‘I guess it made me feel wanted. Like he couldn’t help himself.’

‘What did your friends and family think of your relationship?’

‘They didn’t know.’

‘Why didn’t you tell them?’

‘I tried to tell my friend Ed but,’ Harry lifts his hand and slaps his knee.

‘He didn’t approve?’

Harry shakes his head.

‘Why?’

‘He thought he was taking advantage of me, like I was a fucking kid, or something.’

‘Was he?’

‘Yeah.’ Harry crosses his arms again and exhales through his nose. ‘I guess.’

‘Did Rory want your friends and family to know?’

Harry shakes his head. ‘He said they wouldn’t understand.’

‘Why?’

‘Because he was older than me.’

‘How old was he?’

‘42.’

‘And you were 18, right?’

Harry nods.

‘How did it make you feel that you couldn’t tell them?’

‘I hated it.’

Naz doesn’t believe him. ‘Did it?’

‘It was exciting,’ Harry admits, looking out the window again. ‘Like Romeo and Juliet.’

‘They didn’t end well though, did it?’

Harry laughs, loud and bright.

It feels nice.

When he looks at Naz he’s smiling too. ‘How long did it go on for?’

‘On and off for the whole time I was at uni.’

‘Three years?’

Harry nods.

‘Why on and off?’

‘He’d keep breaking it off, saying that he was going to lose his job.’

‘Then what would happen?’

‘He’d find me, tell me that he couldn’t live without me, that he was addicted to me.’

‘How did that make you feel?’

‘Special.’

‘Wanted?’

Harry nods.

‘Then what would happen?’

‘I’d wake up the next morning and he’d be gone.’

‘Did you tell him how you felt?’

‘All the time. But he’d laugh, tell me to grow up, that I was being melodramatic.’

‘Melodramatic?’

‘That was his favourite word. That and immature.’

Naz writes something in the notebook. ‘Go on.’

‘He said it was nothing. Just sex.’ Harry catches a tear from the corner of his eye with his knuckle. ‘He’d call me a whore, say that was all I was good for, a lay when he was horny.’

‘Yeah?’

‘He said I was a step up from his hand.’

‘How did that make you feel?’

‘How’d you think?’ Harry lifts his chin to glare at him. ‘Like a whore, like a step up from his hand.’

‘Did you tell him that?’

‘I’d want to but the next time I saw him he’d be sweetness and light, telling me how much he missed me, that he couldn’t live without me. That’s what he did.’ Harrys taps his temple with his finger. ‘He fucked with my head. He’d give me something, then take it away. He’d let me take a photo of us on my phone and when I left the room he’d delete it. Or he’d take me to dinner and say goodnight outside the restaurant so I had to go home on my own.’

‘What was the final straw?’

‘He.’ Harry starts, then stops, uncrossing his arms and holding onto the seat of the chair as if he might fall out of it if he doesn’t. ‘He, um. He beat up my friend Ed.’

‘Why?’

‘I was drunk.’ Harry closes his eyes. ‘I called him. I just wanted to see him. I missed him.’ When he opens them again, Naz is nodding. ‘I couldn’t even get him to call me back so I didn’t think he’d show up in the pub I was at.’

‘What happened?’

‘He saw me with Ed and lost it.’

‘Why?’

‘He thought we were together. They’d never met so he didn’t know we were friends.’

‘So he attacked him?’

Harry nods. ‘The next day, I refused to fuck him in our session.’

‘How did he react?’

‘He ignored me for three weeks.’

‘Even in session?’

Harry nods. ‘Like nothing had happened. He asked me how much I was checking.’

‘How did that make you feel?’

‘He made me feel like I was fucking mad, like I’d imagined the whole thing.’

‘Why?’

‘He asked me why I thought we were in a relationship and when I told him because he kept putting his dick in my ass he looked horrified and said he was straight, showed me a photo in his wallet of his wife. He was even wearing a wedding ring.’

‘Was he married?’

‘That’s the thing!’ Harry doesn’t mean to raise his voice but he can’t catch his breath. ‘The next time I saw him he wasn’t wearing the ring and when I asked after his wife he said that he wasn’t married. But he said he was, I swear, he showed me a photo and everything.’

‘I believe you.’

Harry is stunned and lets go of the chair.

‘You do?’

‘If he’s capable of taking advantage of his position as your counsellor and use your OCD against you, he’s capable of anything.’

‘Thank you.’ Harry wants to hug him. ‘Thank you.’

‘Was he ever physically violent to you?’

Harry shakes his head.

‘Did he ever injure you?’

‘No. Never.’

‘Even accidentally?’

Harry frowns. ‘Accidentally?’

‘Like during sex.’

Harry thinks about it. ‘I’d have bruises sometimes, but nothing more than that.’

‘Did he ever force you to do something that you didn’t want to do?’

‘Like Karaoke?’ Harry laughs. Naz doesn’t. ‘If you’re asking if he raped me, he didn’t.’

‘So you always consented?’

‘Of course.’

‘Did you know what he was going to do?’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Like when you were kissing, did you know that it would lead to oral?’

‘Of course not.’ Harry scoffs. ‘Things went where they went.’

‘So how could you consent?’

Harry looks at him like he’s mad. ‘Consent to what?’

‘He wouldn’t ask if he could do something?’

‘He was my boyfriend, he didn’t have to ask my permission to suck my dick.’

He hears Zayn’s voice then, _Wanna suck you, babe. Gonna let me suck you?_

‘I wanted it,’ Harry adds, his cheeks burning.

‘So you just went along with whatever he wanted to do?’

‘He took the lead, if that’s what you’re getting at.’

‘Why?’

‘He knew what he was doing. I didn’t.’

‘Even after three years?’

Harry thinks about last night, about begging Zayn to come in him.

He would never have said that to Rory.

Never.

‘I wanted it,’ Harry insists, but his voice shakes.

‘Did you or was it the only way you could have him?’

‘I don’t even fucking know anymore.’

Harry puts his face in his hands and rests his elbows on his knees.

‘Listen, Harry.’

He feels Naz squeeze his shoulder with his hand and jumps.

‘Sorry.’ When he looks up, Naz is holding his hands up and he holds his up too. ‘Sorry.’

‘It’s okay, man. I didn’t mean to-’

‘No.’ Harry sighs. ‘It’s me. I’m a fucking mess. I do this with Zayn as well.’

‘It won’t always be like this.’

‘No?’

Harry looks at him under his eyelashes and he smiles. ‘You’ll get through this.’

‘What if I can’t?’

‘You will.’

Harry shakes his head. ‘What am I going to tell Zayn?’

‘Oh don’t worry about him,’ Naz waves his hand and laughs. ‘I know he’s a skinny motherfucker but he’s stronger than he looks.’

 

+++

 

Harry has to lock himself in the toilet for a minute or two before he goes outside to face Zayn. His face is still burning, despite splashing so much cold water on it that his hair is damp. He brushes the droplets off his coat with his hands before they can sink in and stands up straight, looking at himself in the mirror. He takes a deep breath then another and another then one more before he nods and unlocks the bathroom door.

When he gets outside, Zayn is waiting by his car. He looks nervous, pacing back and forth on the pavement and talking to someone on his phone as he smokes on a cigarette. When he sees Harry, he ends the call then turns and flicks the cigarette into the street and waves his hand in front of his mouth as though he’s been caught smoking behind the bike sheds. It’s so cute that Harry can’t help but smile, but when Zayn smiles back it’s so fake, the smile Harry uses when he bumps into someone he works with in _Sainsbury’s_ (which Ed once referred to as his _Oh what a surprise so lovely to see you no I’m not having frozen chicken nuggets and red wine for dinner tonight_ smile) that it turns Harry’s stomach inside out.

They’re so close, just a sliver of pavement between the tips of their shoes, that Harry feels the pull he always feels when he’s this close to him, a tug that has him taking a step closer to Zayn before he can stop himself. Like gravity, almost, some force he can’t fight. But for the first time since Zayn came over to his table and offered to buy him a drink that night in the pub, Harry fights it, stuffing his hands into the pockets of his coat and hiding behind his hair. Zayn does the same, his shoulders as high as Harry’s, so high they’re almost touching his ears.

‘So,’ he says, eventually.

‘So.’ Harry nods, waiting for him to go on.

He doesn’t.

They look at each for a moment longer than is comfortable then both jump as Zayn’s phone rings.

‘Aren’t you going to get that?’ Harry asks when he ignores it.

It’s still in his hand but he doesn’t look at it. ‘It’s all right.’

‘What if it’s work?’

‘It won’t be.’

Harry wants to push it but can’t as he feels it – dread – creeping up his back like there’s a cockroach under his shirt.

‘It’s just my mum,’ Zayn adds with a shrug. ‘I hung up on her when you came out.’

He chuckles, but Harry doesn’t.

‘Don’t hang up on your mum on my account.’

‘I’ll call her back later.’

Zayn glances at the screen then but doesn’t answer, making a point of flashing Harry another stiff smile as he puts it in his coat pocket. That’s another thing he’s terrible at, apparently – lying – so Harry looks at the screen before he does.

It’s Naz.

So much for _Whatever you tell me here, is confidential_.

‘Shall we go?’ Zayn says brightly. Too brightly. ‘I’m freezing.’

‘Have you been standing here the whole time?’

He sounds like a surly teenager and it makes the corners of Zayn’s mouth slip. But he catches himself, smiling again as he turns to open the passenger door of the car for him.

‘I’ve got it,’ Harry snaps.

Zayn holds up his hands and raises his eyebrows as if to say, _Okay_ , and Harry wants to apologise, but the moment has passed as Zayn walks around the front of the car and gets into driver’s seat. He doesn’t look at him as he puts his seat belt on, not even when Harry slams the car door. He does clench his jaw, though, and Harry curses himself for being such a sullen brat, hoping that he’ll ignore him and say something, reach across and kiss his cheek and ask him if he’s okay. But Zayn just turns the engine on and Harry has to stop himself getting out of the car and running down the Mile End Road because he knows.

He knows.

He knows.

He knows.

Naz told him.

He knows.

When Zayn turns on the radio, scowling when he hears Mariah Carey’s All I Want for Christmas is You, Harry presses his hand to his stomach because he’s sure he’s going to be sick. Zayn flicks through the stations until he gets to a speech one, 5 Live, Harry thinks, a voice he recognises asking listeners to call in with their thoughts on the demise of the Nativity play.

‘Shit,’ Harry mutters under his breath, remembering that it’s the final rehearsal for his school’s Nativity tonight. Or ‘multi-faith celebration’ as he’s supposed to refer to it as. His class will give whoever’s covering for him a nervous breakdown.

‘What?’ Zayn asks as he pulls away.

Harry’s so startled that he just says, ‘Nothing,’ which doesn’t help the already building tension. Harry can actually feel it, pressing against him, filling the space between them.

That’s the last either of them say to each other until they get to Harry’s flat.

‘You don’t have to come in,’ Harry tells him when he pulls up.

‘It’s all right.’

As Harry’s getting out of the car, he hears someone say his name and freezes, but when he looks up to find Ed trotting down the road towards him, he relaxes.

‘I’m so sorry about last night. Is that why you didn’t come to work today?’

He pulls him into a hug and Harry goes stiff, his arms pinned to his sides.

‘Last night?’ he asks when Ed steps back.

‘Our fight on the phone,’ he says with a pained frown.

‘Oh yeah.’ Harry shakes his head. ‘No, it was nothing to do with that. Speaking of work, shouldn’t you be there now?’ he asks before Ed can grill him further.

‘Lunch.’

Ed looks even more worried now but Harry ignores him, taking his keys out of his coat pockets and turning to open the door. He almost shuts it behind him, desperate to be alone. He just wants to get in the shower and cry. But when he gets to the bottom of the stairs, he stops.

He turns to look back at Zayn. ‘There’s someone up there.’

‘It’s okay.’

Zayn pushes past and goes up the stairs ahead of him. Harry follows and when he gets to the top he finds a guy in blue overalls at his door.

‘How do,’ he says, pretending to doff his cap.

‘This is Dan,’ Zayn explains. ‘He’s changing the locks.’

‘How did you get in?’

‘He used to be a _locksmith_.’ Zayn winks theatrically. ‘He knows every way in and out of this flat and he’ll make sure they’re all out of bounds. If Dan can’t get in, no one can.’

‘Cool!’ Ed says, eyes wide as Harry chucks his keys on the kitchen table. ‘But why are you changing the locks? What’s going on? Is everything okay?’

‘I’ll explain later,’ Harry says then groans when hears the front door slam.

‘What?’ Zayn frowns, but before he can explain, his landlord is in the open doorway.

‘What’s this?’ he spits, pointing a _Tesco_ bag at him. ‘What are you doing?’

‘Making soup,’ Harry says with a weary sigh, rubbing his face with his hands.

‘You can’t change the locks without my permission! Check your tenancy agreement!’

‘And you can’t come in here without my permission, but that doesn’t stop you.’

‘Wait.’ Zayn steps between them. ‘You come in here when Harry’s not in?’

‘I have to!’ his landlord hisses. ‘He goes to work and leaves his music blaring!’

‘So?’ Zayn shrugs. ‘Report it to the council. You can’t just come in here and turn it off.’

‘I can.’ His gaze narrows at Zayn. ‘It’s my flat! I can do what I like!’

‘No you can’t. You can’t come in here without Harry’s permission.’

‘There’s nothing in the tenancy agreement to say I can’t.’

‘It doesn’t matter.’ Zayn shakes his head at him. ‘It’s a fundamental tenant’s right. It’s included in all tenancy agreements by implication because assholes like you try to take it out.’

That makes a nerve in his landlord’s forehead throb.

Even Harry hasn’t managed to achieve that.

‘Who do you think you are? Coming into my flat-’

‘ _Harry’s flat_ ,’ Zayn corrects.

‘Get out!’ His landlord points the Tesco bag at the open door. ‘Get out before I call the police!’

‘I am the police.’ Zayn pulls his ID out of his pocket and shows him it.

All the colour drains from his face.

‘Come,’ Zayn says, curling his finger at him. When he doesn’t move, Zayn says it again, more firmly this time. ‘I said: come.’

To Harry’s surprise – and delight – his landlord follows. He, Ed and Dan knock into each other in their haste to follow them and when they get onto the landing, Zayn’s leading him down the stairs.

‘Harry will give you the new key,’ he tells him. ‘But see this line here?’ He draws a line with the toe his boot across the carpet at the bottom of the stairs. ‘You are not to cross this line until January 5th, do you understand? There is no reason for you to walk up these stairs. I don’t care if Harry’s flat is on fire, you do not go up these stairs until January 5th, got it?’

His landlord doesn’t respond and when he goes into his flat, Ed reaches for Harry’s arm. ‘I think Zayn might be my soul mate.’

 

+++

 

As soon as Ed and Dan leave, tension fills the room like smoke.

They can’t even look at each other.

‘Thanks for sorting that,’ Harry says, crossing his arms and leaning against the counter.

‘No worries.’ Zayn’s fingers curl around the top of the chair he’s standing behind. He’s only on the other side of the kitchen table but he feels miles away. ‘Dan owed me a favour.’

‘You don’t have to stay,’ Harry tells him when he sees that he’s holding on so tight that his knuckles are white. ‘I’m just going to take a shower and get some kip.’

‘Oh. Okay.’ Zayn shrugs. ‘I’ll call you later, yeah?’

‘Yeah,’ Harry says, turning to walk towards the bedroom.

 

+++

 

A shower helps but Harry can’t sleep. He should have asked him, he should have asked if he knew, if Naz told him. They should have talked about it. Maybe he doesn’t want to talk about it. Maybe he doesn’t know what to say, Harry thinks as he reaches for his phone. Maybe he’s waiting for Harry to say something. Just call him, he tells himself as he unlocks his phone.

But he doesn’t call him.

He calls Rory.

He answers on the first ring. ‘Hello, stranger.’

‘Meet me at the Chapel in half an hour.’

 

+++

 

Harry’s late. He doesn’t mean to be (although, with hindsight, leaving Rory hanging for half an hour is deeply satisfying) he couldn’t decide what to wear. Not that he was trying to make an effort, quite the opposite, in fact, opting for all black so Rory wouldn’t have anything to comment on. But when he looked at himself in the mirror before he left, he didn’t look like himself. He looked like the Harry Rory knew. The Harry who never did anything to draw attention to himself, who never wore anything Rory regarded as ‘too gay’. So he peeled off his black jumper off and pulled his paisley shirt out of the wardrobe, leaving it unbuttoned to the navel. When he glanced at himself in the mirror, he almost did up a few buttons in case Rory saw it as an invitation, but stopped himself, grabbing his coat off the bed and heading out of the flat.

It didn’t even occur to him to check if it was locked.

When he gets to the pub, Rory’s waiting at the bar. Harry wonders if he knows it’s a gay bar, if he’s chatting to the barman about tits and football in case anyone thinks he is, too. He could have been cruel, could have told Rory to meet him at the RVT, made him listen to Kylie and sit through Cabaret Roulette, but Harry’s done being petty. They’re way past petty.

They’re actively trying to hurt each other now.

‘Hey,’ Harry says with a bored sigh, sweeping his hair back with his hand.

Rory turns on the stool to face him. ‘Hey, you,’ he says with a wicked smile.

That smile used to make his legs weak, but now it just pisses him off.

Harry’s so relieved he could cry.

‘What you having?’ Rory makes a point of licking his lips then smiles again.

‘I’m not staying.’

Rory ignores him, gesturing at the guy behind the bar for another beer.

‘I said I’m not staying.’

Rory shrugs as if to say, _What?_ ‘It’s just a beer, Harry.’

‘It’s never just a beer with you, Rory.’

As soon as he says it, he bites the inside of his cheek.

Rory smiles sweetly. ‘I’ve missed you too, babe.’

‘Don’t call me babe.’

 _He calls me babe_.

‘What should I call you then?’

‘Nothing, Rory. Don’t call me anything.’

The barman interrupts, putting the beer on the bar in front of Harry, and it’s probably for the best because he can feel himself losing his temper. Harry looks at it but doesn’t touch it.

‘Maybe you’d prefer a watermelon daiquiri?’

‘Fuck off,’ Harry mutters.

‘Language, Harold.’ Rory chuckles and sips his beer.

Harry wants to walk out and start again. It’s been a minute and he already wants to punch him in the face. But Harry refuses to give him the satisfaction, lifting his chin defiantly to look him in the eye for the first time. He looks the same. He has a few more lines around his eyes, his dark hair more salt than pepper now, but his blue eyes are as bright as ever. Like the deep end of the pool, Harry catches himself thinking and snatches the beer bottle off the bar. He downs half of it in three gulps and when his chin drops, Rory is watching him with a smile.

‘Thirsty?’

Harry wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. ‘Listen.’

He doesn’t. ‘You hungry?’ He reaches for the menu and Harry snatches it off him.

‘Enough, Rory.’

‘What?’ The corners of his mouth twitch.

‘ _Enough_.’

‘Enough what?’

‘We’re not having dinner.’

‘Okay. But didn’t you used to complain about me not buying you dinner first?’

He winks and Harry’s jaw clenches. ‘That’s not why I’m here.’

‘Why are you here?’

‘Why are _you_ here?’ Harry stops and lowers his voice. ‘Why are you in London?’

‘I live here.’ Rory shrugs and sips his beer.

‘Since when?’

‘October.’

‘How did you get my number?’

Rory ignores him. ‘Got a job at UCL, thanks for asking.’

‘Doing what?’

‘Teaching.’

‘What are you teaching?’ Harry laughs. ‘Head Fuckery 101?’

‘You should come in.’ Rory’s smile sharpens. ‘Talk to them about living with OCD.’

‘Shut the fuck up,’ Harry warns.

‘I mean, you’re an excellent case study. You’ve managed to hold down a job, you can live by yourself now and you even foiled a robbery to become a national hero.’

‘Stop it.’

‘Your mother must be so proud.’

Harry’s heart is beating so hard Rory must be able to hear it. ‘Don’t you fucking-’

‘How often do you see her? How long’s the drive from Cheshire?’

Harry slams his beer bottle on the bar. ‘Shut up.’

Rory holds up his hands and laughs.

‘Enough.’ Harry says through his teeth. ‘Just stop.’

‘Stop what?’

‘You know what, Rory.’

‘I have no idea what you’re talking about.’

‘Just leave me alone.’

‘I can’t help it. I mean, look at you, Harry. It’s December.’ He smiles, reaching out to hook his finger into Harry’s shirt. ‘You should button your shirt. You’ll catch your death.’

Harry shrugs him off. ‘Don’t touch me!’

‘Just concerned about your health.’

‘Don’t worry about my health. Don’t worry about me at all. I can take care of myself.’

‘Can you?’

‘What’s that supposed to mean?’

‘You’ve always been-’ He stops and pretends to think of the word. ‘ _Clumsy_.’

Harry’s heart starts to beat very, very slowly. ‘Are you threatening me?’

‘Still as melodramatic as ever, I see.’ Rory smirks, reaching for the menu and opening it. ‘Think I might order a burger.’

‘Rory, I want you to stop.’ Harry takes it off him again. ‘I need you to _stop_.’

‘Stop what?’

‘You know what!’ Harry snaps, slapping the menu on the bar.

‘Harry,’ he says under his breath, looking around the bar. ‘Calm down.’

‘I am calm.’

‘You don’t sound it. You invite me out for dinner and now you’re freaking out.’

‘I didn’t invite you out for dinner.’

‘Then why are we here?’

‘To talk.’

‘About what?’

‘You know what!’ Harry roars and Rory looks around the bar again. When Harry does the same, he realises that everyone is looking at him and his cheeks flush.

‘Rory, please,’ he says, his voice shaking. ‘Please. Just leave me alone.’

‘You called me.’ He looks up at the barman and shakes his head as if to say, _He’s mad_.

‘We’re done, okay? Done. So _just stop_. I’ve already told the police.’

‘About what?’

‘You know what!’ Harry barks and the barman’s eyes widen at Rory.

‘You need to see a psychiatrist.’ Rory throws his head back and laughs. When his chin drops, he licks his lips and smiles. ‘I can recommend someone, if you want.’

When Harry turns and walks out of the pub, he can still hear him laughing.

 

+++

 

Harry ends up in a club around the corner. He used to come here all the time when he moved to London and started engaging in what Cath referred to as _reckless behaviour_. (i.e. Getting shit faced and snogging randoms.) At one point, poor Ed was coming to pick him up at 3 a.m. every night when the manager kicked Harry out for engaging in reckless behaviour on the bar.

He hasn’t eaten all day and is _wasted_ by this third beer. So when Zayn calls he shouldn’t answer, but he does, because today is all about making A+ decisions, apparently.

‘Mr Malik.’

‘Mr Styles.’

‘How are yoooooou?’ He tries not to slur but fails dismally.

There’s a second of silence then Zayn asks him where he is.

Harry can practically hear his frown down the phone.

‘Celebrating my life choices.’

‘You okay, babe?’

 _Babe_.

‘I’m fine,’ Harry tells him, knocking back the shot the guy at the end of the bar sends over.

Zayn doesn’t sound convinced. ‘Okay.’

‘Better than fine. You’d be proud of me.’

‘Yeah?’

‘I manned up.’ Harry holds up the empty shot glass.

‘Manned up?’

‘Yeah, I took Chappers’ advice and dealt with it myself.’

There’s another second of silence, then Zayn says, ‘Dealt with what, Harry?’

‘I met my ex for a drink, told him to leave me alone.’

‘What?’

‘Pretty manly, eh?’ Harry smiles smugly, putting the empty glass down on the bar.

‘Babe, where are you?’

‘Listen.’ He stops to sweep his hair out of his face with his fingers. ‘I was thinking.’

‘Harry-’

‘Listen. We met on Sunday.’

‘I know.’

‘It’s Wednesday.’ Harry laughs. ‘Fucking _Wednesday_.’

‘Harry, where are you? I’ll come get you.’

‘Just listen.’ He holds up a finger. ‘This is your Get Out of Jail Free Card, okay? Take it.’

‘What are you talking about?’

‘No hard feelings, okay? Let’s just move on.’

‘Harry, I’m in the car. Just tell me where you are.’

‘Why didn’t we meet a month ago?’ He shakes his head and laughs sourly. ‘I mean, I meet you and he comes back _on the same night_. It’s not fair. It’s not fucking fair.’

‘Harry, please-’

‘I’m so fucked up, Zayn,’ he whispers. ‘I’m so fucking fucked up. You don’t even know.’

‘I don’t care. I-’

‘Listen. Just listen, okay?’ Harry interrupts. ‘It’s you, Zayn. It’s fucking _you_. In ten years, I’ll be lying in bed next to someone else and it’ll be you I’m thinking about. I-’ It isn’t until he has to stop to suck in a sob that he realises that he’s crying. ‘I want you to know that.’

‘Harry, don’t. Just tell me where you are.’

‘Bye, Zayn.’

He hangs up.

 

+++

 

Harry’s knocking back his fifth shot when he becomes aware of someone next to him.

‘That’s enough,’ Ed sighs, taking the glass from him and handing it to the barman.

Harry frowns. ‘What are you doing here?’

‘Were you expecting Zayn?’

‘What’s that supposed to mean?’

‘Well this is your MO, isn’t it? Ed says bitterly. ‘Get drunk off your ass and misbehave until the guy whose attention you’re trying to get comes and rescues you.’

‘Once. I did that _once_ ,’ Harry hisses.

‘Once was enough,’ Ed tells him, rubbing his neck.

‘And you never let me forget it!’ When he turns to order another shot, Ed stops him. ‘No.’ Harry shrugs him off. ‘I’ll never move on if you don’t let me.’

‘Great.’ Ed sighs wearily. ‘So this is _my fault_?’

‘I’m just saying: how am I going to get better if you keep reminding me that I’m sick?’

‘You’re not sick, Harry.’

‘You treat me like I am. _Have you taken your medication, Harry?_ _Have you called Cath?_ ’ he puts on a silly voice and wags his finger. ‘ _Don’t talk to Rory. You can’t engage with him_.’

‘Fine.’ Ed shrugs. ‘You want to talk to Rory, talk to fucking Rory. See if I care.’

‘That’s not the fucking point!’

‘Oi.’ The barman points at Harry. ‘I warned you. Out!’

Harry pulls a face at him and climbs off the barstool.

‘I can walk,’ he hisses, shrugging Ed off as he takes him by the elbow.

‘Go on then,’ Ed says, snatching his phone off the bar and handing it to him.

‘I’m not a fucking invalid.’

As soon as he says it, he walks into a post, put there by karma, apparently.

Ed doesn’t even try to swallow his laugh.

‘Fuck off,’ Harry mutters, mercifully managing to get out of the door and onto the pavement with no further injury.

‘Come on,’ Ed says when he follows him out.

‘No.’ Harry points at him. ‘I’m not going anywhere with you.’

Ed stuffs his hands into the pockets of his coat and tilts his head at him.

‘Oh don’t look at me like that,’ Harry tells him, scraping his hair back with his fingers and ties it into a bun with the hairband around his wrist. ‘You sanctimonious prick.’

Ed whistles. ‘Who pissed on your chips?’

‘You! You piss on everything!’ Harry turns in a circle, waving his hands.

‘Okay. Let’s get you home before I piss on anything else.’

Harry shrugs him off. ‘I just want to be normal, Ed. Why won’t you let me be normal?’

‘What are you on about?’

‘ _I know_ to take my medication and to call Cath when I need her and I know I can’t engage with Rory because he’s a psychopath! Why don’t you give me more credit?’

‘Why don’t I give you more credit?’ Ed laughs sourly. ‘Maybe because you’re drunk off your ass on a Wednesday night when you’re not supposed to drink on your meds. Or because you just met up with Rory without telling anyone after he threatened to cut you open.’ Ed nods and gives him the Okay sign with his fingers. ‘You’re totally thinking straight right now.’

‘Maybe if you left me alone to fucking think.’

‘And _again_ , we’re back to this being my fault.’

‘I’m not saying it’s your fault, I’m saying you’re not helping.’

Ed clenches his fists and holds them up. ‘What do you want, Harry?’

‘I want you to let me talk about him.’

‘Fine! Talk about him!’

‘I loved him! I fucking loved him!’

Ed takes a step back.

‘Yes, he took advantage of me,’ Harry slaps his chest with his hand. ‘He took advantage of being my counsellor and used my OCD against me to make me think I was mad, but I still loved him! And he loved me too. I know he did. In his own fucked up way, he loved me.’

Ed puts his hands on his hips and huffs.

‘He did! You didn’t know him like I knew him, Ed!’

‘I didn’t get the chance! You never told me about him!’

‘I didn’t tell you because I knew you’d react like this!’

‘I’m reacting like this _because_ you didn’t tell me, Harry!’

Stalemate.

‘Ed, I can’t keep doing this.’ Harry presses his palm to his forehead.

‘And you think I can? You think I can keep watching you do this to yourself?’

Harry throws his hands up. ‘Then maybe you shouldn’t.’

‘Shouldn’t what?’

‘Keep watching me.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘I don’t think we should be friends any more.’

Ed takes another step back and stares at him. ‘What?’

‘I think I need some time to sort myself out.’

‘But we’ve been friends since we were five.’

‘Exactly.’

Ed looks at him like he doesn’t recognise him. ‘Why are you being like this?’

‘Because I can’t take it anymore. You’re always _there_. You’re fucking suffocating me, Ed.’ Harry puts his hands around his throat. ‘I can’t breathe. I can’t fucking breathe.’

He turns and when he starts walking away, Harry feels awful.

‘Ed,’ he calls after him and he stops, turning to face him again.

‘He fucked you up, Harry!’ He points at him, his eyes wet. ‘Not me. Him.’

‘I know! Don’t you think I know that?’

‘And now you’re fucking yourself up! You’re fucking everything up.’ Ed turns in a circle, waving his hands. ‘You’re fucking everything up and I’m done trying to stop you!’

‘I don’t need you to stop me, Ed! I need to work it out for myself!’

‘Good.’ He shrugs, then points across the road. ‘Sort it out yourself.’

Harry turns to see what he’s pointing at and covers his face with his hands when he sees Zayn sitting in his car, watching them.

‘He called me. He was worried about you,’ Ed explains, then walks away.

 

+++

 

‘Hey,’ Harry says sheepishly, hands in his pockets as Zayn winds down the car window.

He doesn’t look at him. ‘Get in.’

Harry does as he’s told, careful not to not slam the door this time. Zayn doesn’t say a word, just turns on the engine and pulls away. If Harry was braver, he’d open the door and jump out. Or perhaps it’s braver to stay where he is and deal with whatever is about to happen.

In the end, nothing happens, the pair of them sitting in silence as Zayn drives back to Harry’s flat.

‘Thanks for the lift,’ Harry mutters when he pulls up outside.

‘I’m not a taxi service.’ Zayn reaches over and shuts the door when Harry opens it.

He’s speechless and turns to stare at him.

‘Naz didn’t tell me anything. I know you think he did, but he didn’t.’

Harry shakes his head.

‘He didn’t. He isn’t like that. He just told me to be gentle with you.’

Harry looks away and bites the skin on his knuckle.

‘That’s all he said, Harry. I swear.’

‘So why did you lie and say that you were talking to your mum?’

‘Because I didn’t want you to think that Naz had told me what you’d said.’

‘That worked.’ Harry huffs. ‘But it still doesn’t explain why you haven’t touched me since I walked out of his office.’

‘Because you obviously didn’t want me to.’

‘Didn’t I?’

‘When you came out, you had a face like a slapped arse.’ Zayn reminds him. ‘I’d been sitting in my car for two hours and all you could say was, _Have you been standing here the whole time?_ ’ Zayn does his Cheshire slur so well it makes Harry blush.

‘Because I thought he told you!’

‘When?’ Zayn throws his hands up. ‘When would he have told me?’

‘When you were talking to him before I came out.’

‘He didn’t tell me anything.’

‘I know that now but _this_ is what I’m talking about, Zayn. I’m so fucking fucked up. I don’t blame you for not wanting to come near me.’

‘I’m near you now.’

‘You feel miles away.’ Zayn starts to object but Harry shakes his head. ‘And I know that’s my fault. I mean, look at this mess. We just met. This is supposed to be the best bit, just kissing and talking and shagging, not fighting and crying. I mean, if it’s like this now.’

Zayn doesn’t say anything, just exhales through his nose and looks at his hands.

‘It’s too much.’ Harry holds his hands up. ‘It’s okay. I know it is. I’m not worth it.’

He was supposed to say, _It’s not worth it_ , and bites his bottom lip.

‘You’re right.’ Zayn sighs, his head tipping back against the seat.

‘About what?’

‘I freaked out. I don’t know what’s going on, but I know it’s bad and I freaked out. Not because it’s too much or because I want out, but because I _don’t_ and it’s fucking terrifying.’ He turns his cheek to look at Harry. ‘I have never felt so much for someone so quickly.’

‘Me either,’ Harry breathes and Zayn’s shoulders fall.

‘So yeah, I freaked out, because I didn’t know how to fix it. That’s what I do, I fix things. That’s my job. It always has been, even when I was fifteen and I was talking to a kid at my dad’s youth club whose parents were threatening to send him back to Pakistan until he was _normal again_. Then when I called you tonight and I heard your voice I felt _useless_. I was so worried I called my mum.’ He laughs, covering his face with his hands. ‘I called my fucking mum.’

When he takes them away again, he turns to Harry and sighs tenderly.

‘Sometimes I think I’m so grown up, with my grown up job and grown up car and my police pension, but then something like this happens and I feel like I haven’t grown up at all.’

Harry chuckles. ‘Oh I get that.’

‘I think that’s what being grown up is, realising that you _can’t_ fix everything. You’re not supposed to.’ Zayn lifts his eyelashes to look at him. ‘You’ve got to let people fix themselves.’

Harry knows what he’s going to say and wants to cover Zayn’s mouth with his hand.

‘I can’t fix this. Ed can’t fix this. You’ve got to be your own hero.’ When Harry reaches for the door handle, Zayn stops him, reaching for his arm. ‘That doesn’t mean I can’t help you. I can get your locks changed and deal with your landlord so you can focus on the other stuff.’

He leaves his hand on his arm and Harry smiles. ‘That sounds good.’

‘And I can listen when you’re trying to tell me something, even if it’s the opposite to what you’re actually saying. Like when you say, _Go away_ but you mean, _Don’t go_.’

Harry nods.

‘And when you’re asking, _Why won’t you touch me?_ When you mean, _Why don’t you want me?_ ’ He waits for Harry to look at him. ‘I do want you, Harry. I want _you_. I want you to fall asleep on me in the cinema. And I want you to meet my mum because I know she hasn’t slept since I joined the police and I know that when she meets you she’ll stop worrying.’

‘Even though I’m a basket case?’

Zayn ignores him, squeezing his arm. ‘And I want my dad to meet you because when he does I know he’ll finally get it, get why I am this why. That I’m not giving up a fucking thing.’

Harry lets go of the door handle.

‘I mean, if I know all of this now, Harry, and we just met. Well.’

When Zayn shrugs, Harry turns in the seat to face him.

‘I think we both know this isn’t just another relationship, Harry. That’s why we’re so scared of doing anything to fuck it up.’

‘Zayn, I don’t know how to do this without fucking it up,’ he whispers, like it’s a secret.

‘Me either, but I’m willing to give it a go if you are.’

‘Yeah, but-’ Harry starts to say, then stops to shake his head.

‘Yeah, but what?’

‘You hardly know me. You don’t know the half of it, Zayn.’

‘Exactly. We hardly know each other. How do you know how I’m going to react?’

‘But what if I tell you and you don’t feel the same way?’

‘What if I don’t?’

‘It’s not that simple, Zayn.’

‘Is it.’ When Harry hesitates and he shrugs. ‘I can’t promise that I’m going to feel the same way but you either think this is worth the risk or you don’t.’

Harry doesn’t hesitate this time and turns to look at him again.

‘His name’s Rory.’

 


	5. Balle Balle

Harry wakes up first. Technically, he didn’t sleep, but semantics aside, he’s awake first. Luckily, Zayn sleeps like he’s dead so he isn’t disturbed by Harry’s fidgeting as he lies next to him in bed, vacillating between being woozy with relief that Zayn’s still there after everything he told him and the looming dread of wondering if he still will be once the reality of it sinks in.

To be fair, it was a lot to hit him with all at once. Not just Rory and his head fuckery, but Harry’s OCD as well. To his credit, despite being clearly concerned, Zayn still listened intently. He didn’t interrupt, didn’t question him or ask him to explain anything, just held his and hand didn’t let go. The questions will come, Harry’s sure, once he’s had time to think about it. He already knows Zayn well enough to know that he’ll want to _do_ something. Ed’s a talker, Ed asks Harry how he’s feeling and wants to know if he’s worried or upset or frightened, but Zayn’s like his sister, he’ll want to fix this and that’s what worries Harry the most: he can’t.

At 3 a.m., Harry gives up trying to sleep and heads into the living room with his yoga mat. It helps, the sequences calming him down enough so he can get back in bed. Zayn doesn’t stir when he does. He’s on his back, his cheek turned towards Harry and his hands on his stomach. He’s wearing Harry’s _Calvin Klein_ jumper and his beanie because his ears were cold. Harry’s so used to his drafty old flat that he doesn’t even notice how cold it is anymore, but Zayn was only in bed a few minutes before he huffed, ‘We’re sleeping at mine tomorrow night.’

Now he doesn’t seem bothered. He’s sleeping so soundly that Harry’s oddly flattered he’s so comfortable in his bed. He hasn’t told Zayn this, but he’s never slept with a guy before, not even Rory. He shared a bed with Ed when they were kids, but that doesn’t count, so this is the first time he’s watched someone sleep, watched their cheek twitch and their eyelashes flutter and Harry’s suddenly so content that when he closes his eyes, he finally falls asleep.

 

+++

 

When Harry’s alarm goes off, they both groan.

‘It’s mine,’ Harry mumbles, turning to snatch it off the bedside table.

‘What time is it?’

‘Six-thirty.’

Zayn groans again.

‘Sorry.’ Harry reaches for his hand and kisses it. ‘What time do you need to be up?’

‘I don’t.’

‘You not in court again today?’

‘Nah.’ Zayn stops to yawn, his nose wrinkling. ‘The trial’s over.’

‘Did you win?’

‘The judge sentenced yesterday morning.’

‘Is that why you were going into the station when I was coming out?’ When Zayn nods, Harry frowns. ‘How come? I thought you’d be down the pub celebrating?’

‘Celebrating what? Six years for twelve rapes?’

‘Six years?’

‘I know.’ Zayn sighs and rubs his face with his hands. ‘I spent a month persuading the most recent victim to testify and when she realised that with time served and good behaviour, he’ll be out in two, she asked me if it was worth it. I didn’t know what to say.’ He shakes his head and looks up at the ceiling. ‘She’ll still be sleeping with a baseball bat in two years.’

‘I’m sorry,’ Harry says, it’s fucking lame but he doesn’t know what to say. It’s enough, though, because Zayn pulls him toward him and kisses the top of his head. ‘That’s awful,’ Harry tells him when he does, curling into his side and pressing his cheek to Zayn’s chest. ‘No offence, but this is why nobody bothers to report stuff to the police.’

Zayn goes quiet and Harry tenses, worried that he has offended him, but then he sighs.

‘I know.’

‘My sister’s friend was raped and she never told anyone because she was drunk,’ Harry admits with a sad sigh, drawing a heart on Zayn’s stomach with his finger.

‘What happened?’

‘The cab driver who dropped her home asked if he could use the toilet and she let him.’

‘This dude was a mini cab driver as well.’

‘Gemma tried to get her to report it but she thought it was her fault for letting him in.’

‘I shouldn’t say this, but I wonder if it’s worth the humiliation sometimes.’

‘Yeah, but you tried.’ Harry lifts his head to look at him. ‘That’s all you can do.’

‘I know.’ When Harry rests his chin on Zayn’s chest with a smile, Zayn smiles back, but it doesn’t reach his eyes. He looks fucking exhausted. ‘But it doesn’t feel enough sometimes.’

‘It is.’

Zayn leans down to kiss him and Harry meets him halfway.

‘Anyway.’ Zayn murmurs when Harry rests his chin on his chest again. ‘How are you?’

‘Good.’

‘Did you get any sleep?’

‘A bit.’

‘Did I snore?’

‘No.’ Harry chuckles. ‘I was just thinking about stuff.’

‘Yeah?’

‘About last night.’

Zayn turns his finger in one of Harry’s curls. ‘Are you okay?’

‘Yeah. I’m just glad.’

‘Glad about what?’

‘That you’re still here this morning. I wouldn’t blame you if you did a runner.’

Zayn shrugs nonchalantly. ‘I’m just waiting to see what you’re like in bed.’

Harry shoves him and he cackles.

‘Speaking of,’ Harry says with a dopey smile. ‘Thanks for, you know, just sleeping.’

‘Are you thanking me for not demanding a blow job?’ Zayn looks so sad that Harry can’t look at him, his gaze dipping to the _Calvin Klein_ logo on his sweater. Zayn reaches down to sweep his hair back with his hand so he can see him. ‘He really fucked you up, didn’t he?’

He really fucking did.

 

+++

 

It turns out Zayn has the day off. He’s been working seven days a week on the case for months so the DCI told him and the rest of the team to take it easy today. He’s still on call so, Zayn says, he’ll be lucky to make it to lunch without being called into work. Still, Harry has an idea.

‘Will you arrest me if I do something bad?’

Zayn’s eyes light up. ‘How bad?’

‘Phone in sick bad.’

‘Well.’ Zayn fights a smile as he considers it. ‘If you phone in sick today, it looks like you really are sick and weren’t pulling a sickie yesterday.’

‘That’s true.’

‘And you do look a bit pale.’

Harry plays along. ‘I think I have a fever.’

‘You do?’ Zayn presses his hand to Harry’s forehead. ‘You feel warm.’

‘And I wouldn’t want to give it to any of the kids, especially so close to Christmas.’

‘That’s very thoughtful of you, Harry.’

‘I know.’ He nods and sighs theatrically, reaching for his phone. He’s about to text Ed when he remembers their fight the night before and his shoulders sink. ‘Bollocks.’

‘What? Did you forget about a meeting or something?’

‘Nah.’ Harry sighs again. ‘I have to call my Deputy Head because he doesn’t like it when people text in sick. What if he knows I’m not really ill? I’m such a shit liar.’

‘Can’t you text Ed?’

Harry deftly avoids the question. ‘I know. I’ll text him to say I’ve lost my voice.’

Zayn calls him on it immediately. ‘You can’t avoid him forever.’

‘Why not?’ Harry whines, looking up from his phone with a pout.

‘You were pissed. He’ll understand.’

‘ _Understand_? You were there last night. Didn’t you hear what I said?’

‘No, it just sounded like indiscriminate yelling from inside the car.’

‘He’s never going to speak to me again.’

‘He will.’

Harry shakes his head and goes back to texting Nigel. ‘This time was different.’

‘How come?’

Harry can’t look at him, his cheeks hot. ‘I told him we shouldn’t be friends anymore.’

‘Why would you do that?’

‘Because I’m an asshole.’ Harry puts his phone on the bedside table and when he turns back to look at Zayn, he’s arching an eyebrow at him. ‘It’s been a long time coming.’

‘Why? He adores you, babe.’

‘That’s the problem.’

Zayn frowns. ‘You think he’s in love with you or something?’

‘No!’ Harry laughs at the thought. ‘He’s just very overprotective. _Too_ overprotective.’

‘You two are like brothers, though. I’m the same with my sisters.’

‘I know.’

They’re on their backs, side by side in bed, so when Harry sighs and looks up at the ceiling, it kind of feels like he’s in confession, or something.

‘It’s not the first time we’ve broken up. I mean, I don’t know what else to call it. It kind of is like breaking up.’ He waits for Zayn to say something, but when he doesn’t, he goes on. ‘The last time was when we graduated from uni. Ed assumed that would be it, I’d break up with Rory, and when I didn’t, he fucking flipped and said he couldn’t do it anymore, he couldn’t help me.’ Harry presses his hand to his chest. ‘And I was so fucked up that I thought he was jealous, you know? That he was jealous I was with Rory so I didn’t have time for him anymore.’

Harry rolls his eyes, his cheeks stinging at the memory. ‘So he applied for the job at Green Field and moved to London and I stayed in Manchester.’ He closes his eyes. He doesn’t want to tell Zayn this bit because it will make him sound like an idiot, but he has to. ‘I thought things would get better with Rory when Ed wasn’t there. But of course they didn’t.’

He can’t say any more than that and takes a deep breath as tears gather at the corners of his eyes. ‘I didn’t last three months before I packed a bag and went running to London.’

‘You didn’t run. You got out and it was the best thing you could have done,’ Zayn says softly. ‘I mean, look how much happier you are now.’

‘Yeah, but at what cost? I don’t think Ed ever really forgave me for choosing Rory.’

‘He did. I’ve seen you two together. You’re like brothers.’

‘He’s not my brother, though.’

‘So?’

‘My counsellor, Cath, says it isn’t healthy, that we have a co-dependent relationship.’

‘A what in the what now?’

‘It’s like.’ Harry drums his stomach with his hands as he tries to find a way of saying it that doesn’t sound like he’s reciting _WebMD_. ‘Cath says that we control each other’s self-worth.’

Zayn pats his stomach as well. ‘Self-worth?’

‘Self-esteem, I guess. The way I see myself. Cath says that my self-worth is dependant on Ed’s approval.’ When he turns his head on the pillow to look at Zayn, he’s nodding but Harry knows that he’s not explaining it very well so tries again. ‘It’s like I only feel better about myself if Ed agrees with my decisions. I need him to like my job and relationships and to congratulate me when I take my meds so I feel worthwhile.’

‘What do you say?’

‘I mean, I agree, I think.’

‘You think?’

‘It’s the same for Ed.’ Harry starts drumming his stomach with his hands again. ‘He needs my approval for everything. He can’t even buy a shirt without asking me what I think.’

Zayn isn’t convinced. ‘My cousin Jawaad doesn’t buy anything without asking me first.’

‘Okay.’ Harry concedes. ‘Shit example. It’s more unhealthy than that.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘We can’t function without each other. Do you know what I mean?’

‘I guess.’

‘It’s like.’ Harry stops because he’s scared to say it out loud. ‘It’s like we have these roles: he’s the sensible one and I’m the fuck up. So I keep fucking up because Ed needs me to fuck up so he can be there for me otherwise our relationship doesn’t work.’

Zayn is quiet for a moment, and Harry’s cheeks burn. He shouldn’t have said that.

‘I mean it’s me, I know it’s me.’ Harry raises his hand as if he’s telling the ceiling. ‘I know it’s my fault. Ever since we were kids I’ve felt like if I wasn’t his friend no one would be.’ He closes his eyes, the back of his neck burning with shame now as well. ‘I’m his only friend, I always have been. I’m the only one he trusts, the only one who makes him laugh and knows what to do when he’s in a bad mood. He loves me. He loves me and he’d do anything for me. Fucks knows why given I’m-’ He makes the cuckoo gesture with his finger and Zayn tugs his hand away. ‘And I love him too, but we do everything together, you know? We went to the same uni, we work at the same school, we eat lunch together every day. I just.’

When he stops, Zayn nudges him. ‘Just what?’

‘I just wonder sometimes who I’d be if he wasn’t there.’

It’s suddenly so quiet that Harry can hear someone’s phone ringing in the street.

He waits for Zayn to say something, but when he doesn’t, he huffs out a breath.

‘I’m an asshole. I know I’m an asshole.’

‘You’re not an asshole.’ Zayn reaches for Harry’s hand and rests it on his stomach.

‘Well I feel like an asshole for saying that, but I’ve lost so much because of this.’

‘This what? Ed?’

‘This.’ Harry points at his temple. ‘Whatever the fuck is in my head.’ Zayn squeezes his hand and it gives him the courage to go on. ‘When I was younger, my anxiety was so bad I couldn’t go to school some days, I couldn’t even leave my room. I’d lie in bed with the curtains drawn, listening to the other kids playing in the street, just laughing and kicking a football, and I’d ache, you know? It actually physically _hurt_ , hurt like I’d been punched, or something.’

When he turns his head to look at Zayn again, he nods like he gets it this time.

‘I’d lie there thinking, _I’m fucking my life up_. _I’m fucking my life up. I’m fucking my life up_. But I still couldn’t move and I _hated_ myself because I think about all the things I could have been – a tennis player, an author, a pop star – if I’d just got out of bed, you know?’

Zayn turns onto his side to face him, Harry’s hand still in his.

Harry’s the one to squeeze this time. ‘And Ed was there through all of it.’

Zayn nudges him with his knee. ‘But that’s a good thing, right?’

Harry tries to suck in a sob and can’t. ‘I think I fucked up his life as well.’

‘You didn’t fuck up his life.’ Zayn sits up and waits for Harry to catch his breath and look at him. When he does, he frowns at him. ‘And you didn’t fuck up your life, either.’

‘Yes, because it’s going _so well_.’

Harry sits up too and makes the _Okay_ sign with his fingers.

‘When stuff like this happens,’ Zayn says gently, crossing his legs so they’re sitting opposite each other in the middle of the bed, ‘I’m so grateful I have my faith.’ When Harry lifts his chin to look at him, Zayn raises his hand. ‘I’m not trying to convert you or anything.’

Harry chuckles.

‘Seriously, though. My faith’s so comforting.’

‘How come?’ Harry asks, genuinely intrigued. He’s never been particularly religious, never found comfort in anything more than his yoga sequences and Sufjan Stevens.

‘I believe in something called Qadar.’

‘Qadar,’ Harry repeats, hoping he said it right.

‘It’s like predestination.’

‘Okay.’

‘So as a Muslim, I believe that Allah is the Knower and the Creator of all things, right?’

Harry nods. ‘Right.’

‘So nothing exists outside of His will and decree. Nothing. Whatever befalls me could not have missed me, and whatever misses me could not have befallen me.’

‘Wait.’ Harry squints at him. ‘So me having a shit life is predestination?’

Zayn doesn’t miss a beat. ‘Basically.’

Harry throws his head back and laughs. When he looks at Zayn again, he’s grinning.

‘And that’s why mine’s been a bit shit too. Not as shit as yours, true, but pretty close.’

‘And all of this is comforting how exactly?’

‘Okay. So I believe that Allah is the Creator of all things, right?’

‘Right.’

‘So if I’m gay that’s because Allah created me this way.’

‘Okay.’

‘Not all Muslims agree with me.’ Zayn raises his eyebrows and mouths _Awkward_. ‘But for me, it’s quite simple: I’m gay because it’s Allah’s will.’

‘Qadar.’ Harry gives him a double thumbs up. ‘Got it.’

‘So fuck what anyone else says, this is what Allah wants for me. It’s my destiny.’

Harry considers it. ‘That’s pretty liberating, actually.’

‘Exactly. But just because it’s Allah’s will doesn’t mean it won’t be hard. I mean, I still have to try. It won’t come easily. It’s been painful and confusing and fucking terrifying, if I’m honest, but I keep going because this is what Allah wants for me. I have to believe that.’

‘I get that.’

‘I don’t know how it works for you.’ Zayn shrugs. ‘But maybe you were born with OCD. You can’t fight that either, you have to build your life around it and you have.’ He reaches over and tugs on the front of Harry’s sweater. ‘You say that you have shit life but you don’t. You have a job and a flat and friends and a super hot boyfriend.’

‘Is modesty one of the things you believe in?’

Zayn tries not to laugh. ‘I’m just saying: you got out of bed, babe. You got out of bed and you’re living the best life that you can. That’s all any of us can do.’

Harry tilts his head to look at him from under his eyelashes. ‘Hot _and_ wise.’

Zayn nods sagely, then pulls him into a kiss.

 

+++

 

They spend the morning in bed, drinking tea and watching Netflix on Harry’s laptop in the nest they’ve made out of blankets and pillows and the cushions from the sofa. Zayn’s persuaded him to watch Arrested Development, which really is as funny as Ed said it was. Harry almost texts him, but his shoulders sink when he remembers that he can’t. Luckily, Zayn’s curled into his side, his cheek on Harry’s stomach, so he can’t see him, which is good because he knows Zayn will tell him to call Ed. And he should – after all, the longer he leaves it, the harder it will be – but he can’t. Not yet. Harry just wants to lie in bed with Zayn with the curtains drawn and the front door locked, safe in their blankety nest.

By the third episode, Zayn’s asleep. It’s Harry’s fault; Zayn warned him when he started playing with his hair that it would put him to sleep. But his cheek was on his stomach, his face turned toward the laptop, so his head was _just there_. Harry can’t resist touching Zayn’s hair at the best of times (every time he sees him he hears that PJ Harvey song _I wanna chase you ‘round the table, I wanna touch your head_ ) so he couldn’t ignore it. Not that Zayn objected. He purred when Harry began stroking the patch of shaved hair above his ear. By the time he moved his finger around to the nape of his neck, letting it slip under the collar of his sweatshirt to find the line where his hair ended and his warm skin began, Zayn was fast asleep.

Harry likes the shaved bits. Zayn says his head feels like a tennis ball, but Harry thinks it feels more like a baby’s brush, like the softest thing he’s ever felt. He usually wears the long part up, smoothed back into a short ponytail, but last night he took the hairband out when he got in bed exposing a new patch of hair for Harry’s fingers to explore. That’s the best thing in all of this. It’s all great to be fair, but every day he learns something new about Zayn. He doesn’t lie, like Rory used to, doesn’t keep things from him or only tells him what he wants Harry to know. It’s like starting a new book, every page a surprise. A delight.

When Harry starts plaiting his hair, Zayn stirs, rubbing his cheek against Harry’s stomach like Dusty does when he tickles her, but he doesn’t wake up. Harry can see the reflection of his face in the laptop screen, all eyelashes and pursed lips, and he’s glad the curtains are drawn and the front door is locked because he wants to stay like this forever. But he knows they can’t. Eventually, the reality of being with someone like Harry will set in and no matter how many times Zayn tells him that it doesn’t matter, it does. It’s fine now, while everything is new and surprising and delightful, but after a few weeks, Zayn won’t bother waiting until Harry is done checking the front door before he goes to sleep and even if he does, he’ll lose his patience when Harry won’t stop fidgeting and gets up at 3 a.m. to do yoga.

It’s easy to say that you can live with something if you haven’t actually lived with it.

Harry checks his phone. Nothing from Ed. He expected it, but it still needles at him. This is the longest they’ve gone without speaking after a fight. Usually Ed makes the first move. He’ll text Harry saying, _Cheered up yet, you miserable sod?_ Or he’ll come around the next morning with coffee and bacon butties and wave a white paper napkin when Harry answers the front door.

He must be fidgeting again because Zayn stirs.

‘Shit.’ He sits up and blinks sleepily at Harry. ‘How long have I been asleep?’

‘About half an hour?’

‘Why didn’t you wake me up?’

‘You looked so peaceful.’

‘What time is it?’ he asks, turning to take his phone off the bedside table. He doesn’t wait for Harry to answer, just mumbles, ‘Shit’ again when he sees that it’s almost one o’clock.

‘Sorry,’ Harry mumbles back.

Zayn looks confused. ‘What are you sorry about?’

‘For wasting your day off.’

‘Are you kidding?’ Zayn laughs. ‘That fucking case kicked my arse. This is perfect.’

‘Really?’

‘Really.’ Zayn leans over and kisses him on the mouth. ‘Exactly what I needed.’

Harry grins clumsily and Zayn growls, grabbing him and biting his neck.

‘How are you so cute? Did you get more cute while I was asleep?’

‘Stop it!’ Harry squeals, trying to wriggle away. But Zayn bites him again, saying, _OM NOM NOM_ into his neck as Harry shivers with delight. ‘I’m going to drop the laptop!’

Harry tells him to stop again but he doesn’t want him to, wrapping his arms around his neck and pulling him closer. They’re both laughing, Harry shrieking as Zayn threatens to eat his ear. He can hear himself laughing, this loud, strange sound he hasn’t heard for so long. He holds onto Zayn tighter when he realises that even though he shouldn’t be after everything that’s happened – Rory and the letters, his fight with Ed and his ass of a landlord – he’s happy.

Stupidly, uncontrollably, uncontainably happy.

 

+++

 

While Zayn’s in the bathroom, Harry untangles himself from the blankets and goes into the kitchen in search of food. He’s starving but he’s pretty sure he has fuck all in. He’s right, the cupboards empty except for a pack of dry spaghetti and a tin of baked beans. Undeterred, he chomps on a thread of spaghetti as he pads over to the fridge, hoping to find some eggs.

No such luck.

He closes the fridge with a petulant sigh. Unless he can make something edible out of half a shrivelled lemon and a pint of milk, he’s going to have to leave the flat. Or Zayn is. Rock, Paper, Scissors will decide it. Luckily, Zayn doesn’t know his Fire move yet, which always wins (fire beats _everything_ ) so he’s feeling quite smug as he turns to head back into the bedroom. But as he does, something on the fridge door catches his eye.

A photo he doesn’t recognise in the mess of postcards and magnets.

‘No,’ he gasps, stepping back into the kitchen table. He knocks over one of the chairs as he does and it falls on it’s side with a livid clatter.

 

+++

 

‘Don’t touch it,’ Zayn tells him when he comes into the kitchen to see what’s going on.

Half an hour later, a woman is at the flat who he introduces as Detective Legg.

She extends her hand. ‘Hello, Harry.’

She’s about his mum’s age, but taller with a mess of cola coloured curls. She looks more like a detective than Zayn – more what he expected after watching all those crime shows with Ed – kind of sombre, no make up and sensible shoes, a heavy wool coat over her grey trouser suit. When he shakes her hand, Zayn explains that she’s the detective Naz told him about, the sympathetic one. Harry wants to thank her for taking this shit with Rory seriously but can only nod and cross his arms tightly as though he’s about to come apart at the seams.

‘When was it taken?’ she asks, moving the _I love oral sex so talk dirty to me_ magnet away and plucking the Polaroid off the door of the fridge. She’s wearing blue latex gloves, Harry notes as she inspects it, her gaze narrowing at the photo of he and Zayn in bed, Harry laughing so much his eyes are shut, his mouth open so you can see the pink of his tongue.

When Harry doesn’t answer, just looks at his feet, Zayn does. ‘This morning.’

‘Are you sure?’

Harry and Zayn nod in unison.

‘A Polaroid,’ she says to herself. ‘Who carries a Polaroid camera around with them?’

‘It’s mine,’ Harry explains, finally finding his voice. He lifts his head and points to the bookshelf in the living room. ‘It’s usually there. My sister got it for me last Christmas.’

She and Zayn turn to look at the empty space on the shelf, then down at the kitchen table where the camera is now sitting next to a NUT newsletter Harry got in the post.

‘Perfect timing,’ she says to a guy who suddenly lumbers in through the open door.

She was obviously expecting him.

Zayn too.

‘Thanks for coming.’ Zayn shakes his hand then hugs him.

‘Anything for you, man.’ He slaps Zayn on the back.

‘This is Charlie,’ Zayn says. ‘We work together. He’s a Scenes of Crime Officer.’

Harry and Charlie nod at each other and when he puts the case he’s carrying on the kitchen table, Detective Legg points at the camera and lays the photo down next to it.

‘Do your thing, Charlie,’ she tells him. ‘If we’re lucky he’s left a print.’

‘If there are prints anywhere in this flat, I’ll find them.’

‘Thanks, man.’

Zayn shakes his hand again then follows Detective Legg when she suggests they go into the living room. Living room is generous. It’s not even a room, rather a square of carpet that distinguishes it from the kitchen. The three of them stand awkwardly around the coffee table in silence for a moment while Charlie unpacks his case and snaps on a pair of latex gloves. Harry’s facing the bedroom door. It’s open, exposing the pile of pillows and blankets on the bed, the laptop sitting innocuously in the middle of it all, like the black heart of a poppy. He wonders if this is where Rory was standing when he took the photo and starts shaking so much he has to sit down. But judging by the look on Detective Legg’s face, he needs to be standing for this.

‘I don’t know how he got in,’ Harry says before she can ask. ‘He doesn’t have a key. I never gave him a key. I don’t even know how he got one. I only changed the locks yesterday. Right, Zayn?’ When Harry looks at him, he nods. ‘How could he have got one?’

Harry looks between them, waiting for one of them to say something, tell him it’s going to be okay. When they don’t, Harry turns to look at Zayn again and frowns. ‘Did you see him?’ Zayn doesn’t look up, just shakes his head. ‘How didn’t we see him? The bedroom door was open. He must have been standing right here.’ He points to the floor. ‘How didn’t we see him?’

‘He’s escalating,’ Detective Legg says finally and Harry almost laughs.

He wishes Ed was here.

He’d fucking love this.

 

+++

 

When Detective Legg asks if there’s anyone he can stay with, Harry’s first thought is that he’ll have to stay with Ed again, hide in his old room while Ed makes tea and tells him not to worry, that he’s safe now. He’s sure that if he called him, their fight would be forgotten and Ed would be there like a shot, ready to take him back to his flat. He’d lock the doors and tuck Harry into bed because that’s what they do, what they always do – retreat. Even when they were kids and things were bad at school, they’d hide in the boy’s toilets or, when they got home, Ed would build a fort out of pillows and sheets and they’d sit in it eating sweets until their stomachs hurt.

As soon as the thinks about it, the word _relapse_ bubbles up from nowhere, bobbing cheerfully in the pit of his stomach as if it’s already been decided. As if it’s a forgone conclusion that’s what he’ll do. Like his body knows before he does that he’ll tell Detective Legg to forget it and go hide in Ed’s flat until Rory gets the message or gets bored, whichever comes first.

But as suddenly as the word appears, it disappears as if it was never there, as though it was a soap bubble he touched with his finger. _No_. He hears the rumble of it, deep in his chest, as he thinks about going back to how things were when he first moved to London, when just the sound of a car door slamming in the street was enough to trigger a panic attack. He’d lie in bed for _days_ , until his back was sore and his head was fuzzy, desperate to ask Ed for his phone back so he could listen to Rory’s voicemails, to him apologising and begging him to come home.

_Come home, Harry_.

_I love you, Harry._

_I miss you, Harry._

_I’m sorry._

_I only get so angry because I want you so much._

_I just want you all to myself._

_Because you’re mine, Harry._

_Mine_.

No.

He’s worked too fucking hard and given up too fucking much to go back.

Besides, what happens the next time? And the next time? And the next time?

‘Do you want to stay with me?’ Zayn says when Harry doesn’t respond.

It’s so unexpected that Harry stares at him. His first response is to say yes – YES, YES, YES – but isn’t that the same thing as hiding at Ed’s?

Zayn must know what he’s thinking because he says, ‘I dunno.’ He exhales through his nose. ‘I mean, part of me is like, don’t give Rory the satisfaction because this is what he wants.’ Zayn looks at Detective Legg who nods soberly. ‘But if he wanted to actually hurt you, he would have by now. He’s had ample opportunity to.’ Harry must look as frightened as he feels because Zayn’s voice softens as he adds, ‘But this isn’t about hurting you, Harry. It’s about letting you know that he can, that he can fuck you up without laying a finger on you.’

‘This is about control, Harry,’ Detective Legg adds ominously and he has to swallow another laugh because it sounds like she’s reading off a script, or something. ‘About keeping you in a place where he can control you, control your emotions and actions. Where you’re too scared to even go outside. But if you continue ignoring him, he may escalate further.’

Harry’s confused. ‘So you think I should talk to him?’

‘Not at all.’ She shakes her head. ‘The opposite, in fact.’

‘But you just said that will piss him off more.’

‘It will. And if he’s pissed off, he’ll make a mistake and we can nail him.’

‘He’s smarter than that though.’

‘Not right now. Ironically, you’re controlling _him_ when you don’t react.’

Harry sighs and rubs his forehead with his hand. ‘This is so fucked up.’

‘Which is why I think you should stay with me,’ Zayn says, hands on his hips. ‘Like I said, I don’t want to give him the satisfaction because that’s what he wants, to scare you so much that you don’t even feel safe in your own flat. But we have to be sensible. If he’s coming in without you knowing, then you can’t stay here. Why risk it?’

Detective Legg nods. ‘You’d be foolish to stay here if you know Rory can get in.’

Charlie nudges the kitchen table with his hip as he’s dusting it for prints and the scrape of it’s legs on the lino makes Harry jump. Zayn frowns at him as if to say, _Are you okay, babe?_ and Harry shrugs.

‘Pack a bag while we finish up here,’ Detective Legg says coolly, like she’s telling him to put the kettle on. ‘And Zayn can take you back to his.’

‘Wait. I can’t.’ Harry fists his hand in his hair as he stops to ask himself again how this is any different to staying at Ed’s. ‘I can’t keep hiding forever.’

Zayn shakes his head. ‘You’re not hiding.’

‘I am.’ Harry doesn’t mean to raise his voice but it’s getting harder to catch his breath. ‘I thought you said I had to be my own hero. Running away is the opposite of heroic.’

‘And putting yourself in danger isn’t heroic, either.’

Harry’s so confused. All the can do is shake his head and focus on his breathing.

‘Listen.’ Zayn waits for him to turn his cheek toward him. ‘When I said that you had to be your own hero, I didn’t mean in the superhero sense. No one’s expecting you to fight Rory with your bare hands.’ Harry chuckles at the thought. He’d probably end up punching himself in the face. ‘I meant that you can’t just sit back and wait for someone to save you.’

‘That’s _exactly_ what I’m doing.’

‘How, babe? You’ve done everything right: you’ve tried to reason with him. You’ve made it clear twice now,’ Zayn holds up two fingers, ‘that you’re not interested in a relationship with him. You’ve done everything you can to resolve this yourself, but he hasn’t listened.’

‘Yeah, and now I’m asking _you_ to save me.’

‘You’re not asking me to save you, you’re asking for help. There’s a _huge_ difference.’

‘Is there?’

‘Of course there is.’ Zayn presses his hand to his chest. ‘You’re not asking me because I’m your boyfriend, you’re asking me because I work for the police and that’s your only option right now. You’ve tried everything else.’

The muscles in Harry’s jaw relax.

The relief is palpable.

Zayn nods toward Detective Legg. ‘Let us do what we do. We’ll sort this out, I promise.’

Harry tries not to smirk. ‘I thought you guys weren’t supposed to promise anything?’

‘Stop watching Criminal Minds.’

Harry chuckles.

‘Besides, you’re _miserable_ here with that asshole downstairs banging on your door every ten minutes.’ Zayn reminds him. ‘Stay with me for a bit, go home for Christmas like you planned and we’ll go from there.’ He shrugs. ‘You have to move out in the New Year anyway.’

‘What if he finds me there too.’

Zayn doesn’t miss a beat. ‘He won’t.’

 

+++

 

Maybe he should stay with Ed, Harry thinks as he stuffs whatever clean clothes he can find in his wardrobe into an overnight bag. They can’t move in together. It hasn’t even been a week. Zayn’s right, it’s too soon.

Harry has to stop and catch his breath as he thinks about staying with Zayn. He knows Ed’s flat, he knows that the bathroom window sticks and the lock on the front door is new. But he doesn’t know Zayn’s flat. Does he live with someone? What if he lives with someone? What if he has a housemate who comes home after Harry’s checked and he has to check again? What if Zayn has to sleep with the window open? What if his front door opens onto the street?

_Oh fuck_. _Oh fuck_. _Oh fuck_.

He’s only just hit Zayn with the OCD thing and now he’s about to witness Harry in full on freak out mode, checking every door and window until he’s so tired he can’t keep count.

It’s too soon.

When Zayn’s showed Detective Legg out, he walks into the bedroom to find Harry sitting on the bed with a shirt balled in his fist. He’s wheezing, caught somewhere between an asthma attack and a panic attack, his chest so tight it feels like his ribs are going to break.

‘I’m okay,’ he lies, stopping to suck in a shaky breath. ‘I just need a minute.’

Zayn doesn’t say anything, just takes the shirt from him and throws it on the bed.

‘Stand up, babe,’ he says softly, but Harry shakes his head.

‘I can’t.’

‘Come on.’

Zayn takes him by the wrists and pulls him up, waiting for Harry to steady himself. When he does, Zayn lets go of his wrists and takes a step back. He does a star jump and Harry stares at him, wondering if he’s having some sort of panic-induced hallucination.

But Zayn just smiles. ‘Come on, babe. It’ll help.’

Harry blinks furiously, trying to blink the hallucination away. But it isn’t one. Zayn’s really doing star jumps in the middle of the bedroom, the floorboards creaking under his feet.

‘Are you-’ Harry pants. ‘Are you m-mad?’

Zayn ignores him and keeps going. ‘Come on.’

‘I can’t.’ Harry leans over, putting his hands on his knees and sucking in another deep breath as he waits for his head to stop spinning. ‘I can’t b-breathe.’

‘I know, babe.’ When he’s able to stand up again, Zayn’s still star jumping. ‘But it’ll help, I promise. I saw it on Orange is the New Black.’

Harry isn’t convinced Orange is the New Black is the best source of advice for panic attacks, but does it anyway. He can’t though, his limbs floppy. But when he stops to focus on his breathing again, Zayn tells him not to think about it, just do it. So he does. It still feels like he has no control over his arms and legs, like he’s flailing rather than jumping, but Zayn tells him to keep going. He’s so dizzy he almost has to stop again, but when Zayn sees him flagging he starts singing, ‘Toast in the toaster getting very hot. Tick tock, tick tock, up you pop!’

He jumps at the _pop_ and Harry laughs. He does this with his class when they’re being particularly rowdy. It always refocuses their energy into something other than senseless yelling.

‘Toast in the toaster getting very hot,’ Harry joins in this time in his best teacher voice and Zayn grins. ‘Tick tock, tick tock, up you pop!’

They jump in unison and it makes Harry laugh harder, doing it again and again until they’re just jumping around the bedroom like a pair of idiots.

 

+++

 

Zayn offers to pull the car around while Harry’s shoving the last of his stuff into the overnight bag. He doesn’t even know what he’s packing, which he’ll regret when he gets to Zayn’s and discovers that he has four pairs of skinny jeans and no pants. If he had a second to think about it, he’d be more selective, packing something more alluring to sleep in than a faded Rolling Stones t-shirt. But being alluring is the last thing on his mind, which makes his blood pressure spike again as he realises that they’ll probably be sleeping in the same bed.

What if Zayn wants to, you know, do stuff?

Harry isn’t ready to do stuff.

As he feels another panic attack approaching, he hears Zayn’s key and pokes his head out of the bedroom as the front door swings open.

‘I’m almost ready!’ he says, a can of deodorant in his hand. ‘Just give me a sec.’

But it isn’t Zayn, it’s his landlord. Harry’s so shocked he almost throws the can at him.

‘Why aren’t you at work?’ he asks with a furious frown, like Harry’s intruding on _him_.

‘What the fuck are you doing in my flat?’

‘What are you doing in his flat?’ Zayn asks, suddenly in the doorway with his car keys in his hand. ‘I thought I was clear yesterday?’

He takes a step toward him and his landlord takes a step back.

‘I was just checking it works!’ He holds up the new key Harry gave him then turns to glare at him. ‘I don’t trust him!’

‘And I don’t trust you,’ Zayn tells him, walking over to him and taking the key back.

‘Hey!’ His landlord goes red, trying to snatch it back. ‘You can’t do that!’

Zayn smiles sweetly. ‘Call the police.’

 

+++

 

Zayn lives in Crouch End, which isn’t far from Seven Sisters, but is still far enough away that Harry immediately feels safer. Harry read somewhere that James McAvoy lived in Crouch End so when he first decided to move to London, he had his heart set on living there in the hopes of bumping into him one day at the supermarket and charming James into questioning his sexuality. The day Harry had his interview at Green Field, he met his sister there for dinner afterwards. It was June so Crouch End had on her best dress, the sun warming the backs of their necks as they sat outside one of the cafes, tickling each of the dogs that stopped by their feet to say hello.

It was so perfect that they decided to move in together. Nowhere fancy, a two-bedroom with a scrap of grass out back they could sit in in the summer. But when they went to the estate agent to ask what was available, they quickly realised that they couldn’t afford it. So she stayed in Walthamstow and he stayed at Ed’s and he hasn’t thought about Crouch End since. But as Zayn’s car passes the café he and Gemma sat outside that warm evening in June, he can’t help but smile.

‘What?’ Zayn asks when he does.

‘Nothing,’ Harry says, his smile softening as he reaches across the car for his hand.

 

+++

 

He lives in a new build off The Broadway. Harry’s heart sinks a little because he’d imagined an old Victorian with black and white chequered tiles leading up to the front door. But when Zayn has to type in a code to get in the front door, he feels a little better.

‘This is Jerry,’ Zayn says when they get into the lobby. It’s nice, dark wood and glass, like a boutique hotel, which is more Zayn than an old Victorian now he thinks about it. He gestures at a man standing behind a desk who’s built like a brick shithouse. ‘He’s an ex-Marine.’

Jerry pretends to flex his muscles and laughs.

‘Jez, this is Harry. Harry Styles. Can you add him to the book?’

‘Sure thing, Mr Malik.’

Harry follows Zayn through a door next to the reception desk that leads into a room filled with chrome post boxes. Zayn uses a small key on his key ring to open one of them.

‘No one’s allowed past the desk unless they live here,’ he explains, shuffling through a stack of envelopes. ‘My post comes here and if I have a delivery, I have to come down and sign for it. So when I say that no one’s allowed past the desk unless they live here, I mean _no one_. Not even the post man. Which is why I asked Jerry to add you to the Visitor’s book.’

Harry nods.

‘There are CCTV cameras everywhere.’ He closes the box and nods up to the corner of the room. Harry looks up to see a camera pointed at them. ‘Even in the stairwell.’

‘Okay,’ Harry says, following him out and waving at Jerry as they head toward the lifts.

‘There are four flats per floor. One in each corner.’ He presses the button and when the lift doors open, he waits for Harry to get in first. ‘I live on the 7th floor, which is the top one.’

‘Penthouse, baby,’ Harry says, trying to lighten the mood.

It feels a little like a scene from Prison Break.

‘You know it,’ Zayn chuckles as the doors open again.

He gets out first this time, looking up and down the narrow corridor as he does. Harry wonders if he’s nervous, which makes him nervous as he follows.

The corridor is also like a boutique hotel, the white walls decorated with square black and white prints with dark wood frames that match the doors. It’s not overly fancy, but it’s still nothing like his place with it’s yellowing wallpaper and threadbare carpet.

‘The stairwell’s down there.’ Zayn nods toward the other end of the corridor. ‘If you’re ever feeling energetic and want to take the stairs.’

Harry chuckles at the thought, but the sound dies in his throat when Zayn finally stops outside his front door. Harry closes his eyes and takes a deep breath telling himself, _It’s fine. It’s fine. It’s fine_ over and over until he feels his heart settle. But just as it does, it speeds up again when Zayn takes him by the hand and drags him inside, shutting the door behind him with a slam.

Harry starts to shake. ‘Is there someone out there?’

‘No,’ Zayn says, reaching over to kiss Harry’s cheek when he realises that he’s scared him. ‘I just don’t want this one getting out.’

As if on cue, Harry hears a gentle _tap tap tap_ on the blond floorboards and looks up as a black cat pads out of one of the rooms, her nose in the air as she trots towards them.

Harry is delighted. ‘You have a cat!’

‘Yeah.’ Zayn smiles clumsily as she approaches. ‘Hope you’re not allergic.’

‘Not at all! I have a cat too.’

‘Yeah?’

‘Dusty. I tried to take her when I moved to London, but my mum wouldn’t let me.’

Zayn laughs, bending down to scoop her up with one hand when she stops at his feet. He buries his nose in her black fur and she purrs gleefully, rubbing her head against his cheek.

‘What’s her name?’ Harry asks, tickling her behind the ear.

She opens her eyes and looks at him warily.

‘Princess Jasmine Al-Hamed. Jas for short. I only full name her when she’s been bad. Not that she answers to anything, of course. ’ Zayn kisses the top of her head. ‘Jas, this is Harry.’

‘Hello, Jas.’

She lets him tickle her again then continues to ignore him.

 

+++

 

They order a pizza and watch the rest of season one of Arrested Development while Jas sits on the back of the sofa, her tail swishing between them when they get too close. Harry tries to bribe her with some pizza crust, which she eats then swats him with her tail to let him know that it won’t be that easy. Harry huffs and crosses his arms when she does, which makes Zayn risk her wrath to lean over and bite his neck. It makes Harry giggle so much, he almost spills his tea, and it’s so normal that Harry can’t help but wonder if this morning even happened.

 

+++

 

It’s all good until Zayn asks him if he’s tired and Harry’s dealt the double blow of panicking that he’ll want to do more than sleep and the sudden, unreachable itch of needing to check.

Harry procrastinates, insisting they watch one more episode, which they do, but when he’s about to suggest they watch another, he sees that Zayn’s nodding off and feels awful. So he lets Zayn pull him off the sofa. When they get into the bedroom, he must hear how shallow Harry’s breath suddenly is, because he reaches for his hand.

‘All the windows are double glazed and they’re locked because it’s freezing. Hear that?’ He stops and cups his hand to his ear. When Harry frowns he smiles. ‘No rattling.’

Harry shoves him and he laughs, leading him out of the bedroom and into the hall. ‘The keys for the windows are in the cutlery drawer in the kitchen.’ He nods at the door as they pass it, then heads into the living room. ‘The doors that lead onto the balcony aren’t locked though.’ Zayn gestures at them. ‘That’s where I smoke and where Jas’ litter tray is. She lets me know when she wants to go out. I hope you don’t mind being woken up at 4.30.’

Like Harry will sleep.

‘But I lock the doors every night before I go to bed.’ Zayn demonstrates then takes the key out of the lock and holds it up. ‘I leave it in here.’ He drops it into a vase on the shelf then leads Harry around the sofa and into the hall. ‘The front door’s a fire door,’ he says, stopping in front of it. ‘So it’s heavy as fuck. I struggle with it sometimes and I have a key. There’s a chain,’ he points to it, ‘and a lock like the one Dan fitted on yours.’

‘Got it,’ Harry manages to say, despite it being harder and harder to breathe.

‘I’m going to get ready for bed.’ Zayn kisses his cheek. ‘Come in when you’re ready.’

Harry starts playing with his bottom lip. ‘I might be a while.’

‘Take your time,’ Zayn tells him and pads off down the hall.

 

+++

 

An hour later, he’s still checking. He’s almost in tears as he thinks about Zayn in bed waiting for him, listening to the front door open and close, open and close, open and close. The thought only makes him panic more which means he can’t focus so he has to check again. He’s a mess by the time he makes himself stop, going into the kitchen to splash some cold water on his face before he goes back into the bedroom. When he does, Zayn’s sitting up in bed, scrolling through his phone.

‘Everything okay, babe?’ He smiles like he’s genuinely pleased to see him and Harry instantly feels better. ‘Come on.’ He throws the duvet back and pats the mattress with his hand. ‘Come feel what a warm bed feels like.’

‘Fuck off,’ Harry mutters, trying not to sigh with delight as he climbs in. The sheets are thick and fleecy and the mattress is the perfect balance between soft and firm. It’s like staying in a hotel.

‘It’s all right, I suppose,’ Harry sniffs.

Zayn laughs, reaching over to turn off the lamp on his bedside table. When he does, that makes Harry feel better as well, something in him finally settling.

‘What?’ Zayn asks when he catches Harry smiling to himself. He rolls his eyes when he realises why. ‘Did you think I was going to jump on you, or something?’

Harry shrugs, his cheeks warming up again.

‘As if,’ Zayn laughs. ‘But if you don’t put out by next week, you’re staying in a hotel.’

When Harry laughs too, Zayn grabs him, nipping at his jaw with his front teeth. ‘How are you this cute?’

‘What?’ Harry giggles as Zayn blows a raspberry against his neck. When he opens his eyes, Zayn’s smiling at him. ‘What?’ he asks again, making the word sound about a minute long.

‘I love it when you laugh like that.’

Harry frowns. ‘Like what?’

‘Like _properly_ laugh. You squeeze both your eyes shut.’

‘Do I?’

‘Has no one ever told you that?’

Harry shakes his head.

‘Well you do. It’s fucking adorable.’

‘Really?’

‘I love it.’

When Zayn leans down to kiss him, Harry feels the words _I love you_ bubble up on his tongue and blushes from his scalp right down to his toes as though Zayn knows they’re there.

‘What?’ he asks, nudging him with his knee.

Harry presses his lips together and swallows the words back.

 

+++

 

Harry wakes with a start, his heart thumping.

‘What the fuck?’ he gasps, sitting up.

‘It’s okay,’ Zayn mutters, turning on the light. ‘It’s Jas.’

Harry peels one eye open to find the cat between them, glaring at Harry.

‘She wakes you up by nudging your nose with hers. Fun, isn’t it?’

If Harry wasn’t having a fucking heart attack, he’d laugh.

 

+++

 

The next time he’s woken by ringing.

‘What’s that?’ he groans, pulling the duvet over his head.

‘It’s your phone,’ he hears Zayn mumble and pokes his head out from under the duvet.

‘It can’t be.’

Harry reaches over to the bedside table for his phone and it fucking is.

It’s his alarm.

‘It’s 06:30.’ He blinks at the screen, then turns to show it to Zayn. ‘Look.’

He doesn’t open his eyes. ‘Yeah, babe. That’s great.’

Harry grins because it is great.

He slept.

He actually slept.

 

+++

 

When Harry first moved to London and he was in denial about how fucked things were, he convinced himself that he’d moved there because he wanted to, not because he was running away from Rory. That’s when he started engaging in what Cath describes as _reckless behaviour_.

Harry prefers to refer to as _The 3 Ds_ : drinking, drugs and dick.

He did everything a 22-year old gay man does when he moves to London. He groped his way around every sauna in Vauxhall, licked the chests of the barmen at Two Brewers (known locally as the Sewers) and even got slung out of the RVT (not his proudest moment). And while he never got so wasted he let himself go further than a blow job in the disabled toilet (that’s why he got chucked out of the RVT, actually, for jumping the queue, which didn’t go down well with the other blokes waiting to get their dicks sucked too), he did everything else.

So when he wakes up that morning and sees that it’s 06:30, he feels the same surge of energy he used to feel when he was getting ready to go out, that mix of joy and excitement, even if it’s for completely different reasons. He sings in the shower and does a dance for Jas in his towel, who watches on the bed with disdain then rolls onto her back so he can tickle her belly. And when Zayn offers to give him a lift to work, he accepts without worrying if he’s putting him out or making him late for work because sleep is amazing.

Like actually amazing.

He asks Zayn to drop him a street away from the school. Not because he’s embarrassed to be seen with him, but so they can say goodbye without one of the kids in his class banging on the window saying, ‘Morning, Harry!’ _Goodbye_ being kissing, of course, so much kissing that when Harry reluctantly climbs out of Zayn’s car, his mouth is red raw and his hair is a mess.

He’s tying it up into a bun when he sees Ed ahead of him, walking through the playground. He trots to catch up, reaching him as he’s going through the double doors into the building. Inside, it’s a mess of kids in bobble hats and mittens barrelling through the corridor to class, so when Ed ignores him, Harry thinks he doesn’t hear him.

‘Hey,’ he says again, out of breath from running.

‘Hey.’ He doesn’t look up and keeps going.

‘Ed, listen.’ Harry grabs the sleeve of his coat to stop him and when he does, Ed looks down at Harry’s hand on his arm. He pulls it away and blushes. ‘I’m sorry.’

‘It’s fine.’ Ed carries on walking, stopping to tell Max to stop running.

‘I mean about the other night,’ Harry says when he catches up.

He doesn’t look at him. ‘It’s all right.’

‘It’s not. I should have spoken to you before I let things get to this point.’

‘Why didn’t you?’

‘Because I’m an asshole.’

There’s a shiver of giggles around them and Ed blushes this time.

He looks furious, shouting over the sudden hysteria, telling everyone to go to class.

‘I’m sorry,’ Harry mutters, lowering his voice. ‘Can we talk somewhere quieter?’

‘About what?’

‘You know what about.’

‘It’s fine, Harry,’ he says, then turns and is swallowed by the gaggle of kids.

 

+++

 

It isn’t fine. They still see each other every day, but it isn’t the same. Ed stops coming by his classroom during break and isn’t in the Staff Room at lunch. He doesn’t even reply to his texts anymore, and on the rare occasions he does, he only says enough to kill the conversation.

Harry feels awful, but Cath tells him to leave him be, that he’ll talk when he’s ready. It feels wrong to leave it, but he does. After all, as his sister reminds him, this is what he wanted – a break from Ed. And it is what he wanted, Harry just wishes the decision had been mutual.

And amicable.

It’s strange at first, school different without Ed, almost as if Harry’s started a new job. There’s no need to go in early anymore, so he spends the time kissing Zayn in his car instead, pretending to be furious when Zayn leaves another heart-coloured mark on his neck that Harry will have to hide with his hair. And when he eventually makes it out of the car and into the building, that’s different too. A couple of the teaching assistants have taken advantage of his rift with Ed to nab the table they used to sit at in the Staff Room. So now he stays in his classroom during lunch, doing his lesson plans and marking so he doesn’t have to do them when he gets home and can spend every moment with Zayn. They even have lunch sometimes. _Lunch_ , being kissing in his car until Harry has to stop and take several deep breaths because he doesn’t want to go back into his classroom with a hard on. Much to Zayn’s amusement.

Eventually, Harry runs out of clean pants and has to go back to his flat. He holds his breath before he opens the door, but there are no letters or photos. Everything’s where he left it and he’s so relieved he almost kisses his landlord when he comes up to ask where he’s been.

After that, things are quiet for a while. Harry can’t believe it, but that’s life, it goes on, that’s what he loves most about it. Harry goes out for Gemma’s birthday while Zayn goes to his cousin’s wedding and sure enough, Zayn calls him during Balle Balle to tell him he wishes he was there. Even Jas comes around, even if Harry hasn’t quite forgiven her for jumping on his back while he was giving Zayn a blow job. He almost choked and Zayn laughed so much, Harry had to use his hand to get him hard again.

That’s the only thing that has changed, he and Zayn have finally progressed beyond kissing. Harry touched him first because he couldn’t wait any longer, but Zayn didn’t jump like he did that time in his car, he leaned into him, pressing himself into the palm of Harry’s hand.

‘Fuck, babe,’ he sighed, and it sounded somewhere between pleasure and relief.

‘Why you’d make me wait so long?’ Harry asked, biting his shoulder.

But Zayn just looked at him with a loose smile. ‘I was waiting for you.’

‘For me?’

‘I knew you’d do it when you were ready.’

Harry thought he hadn’t touched him before then because he was used to Rory taking the lead, but maybe Zayn was right, maybe he wasn’t ready. Harry had never thought about it before, about letting his hand go where he it wants to go, a little further each time, like learning to ride a bike and only being able to go to the corner, then to the end of the road, then to the park, then anywhere.

That’s intimacy – not sex, _intimacy_ – reaching out to touch Zayn and Zayn letting him. It’s strange and thrilling and even a little humbling, Harry knows now, for someone to trust you enough to let you touch them, even though you can hurt them. Not just the sort of hurt that leaves a mark – the bruises and scratches Harry used to find when he was in the shower the morning after he’d been with Rory – but the sort of hurt that will stop you from ever letting anyone touch you again. Being mocked, laughed at, treated like a disposable cup.

Like a step up from their hand.

It isn’t like that with Zayn. At first it was awkward, all elbows and knees and missed mouths as Zayn tried – and failed - to get Harry out of his jeans. But, as they’ve learned, there’s no way to get out of skinny jeans with any dignity, not without a shower or spare change and, if you’re unlucky a flying phone. Now they laugh about it. Now Harry makes a show of wriggling out of them and flinging them across the bedroom while Zayn clutches his stomach and laughs. If Zayn thinks it’s adorable when Harry closes his eyes when he laughs, then so is the way Zayn’s nose wrinkles when he laughs. Harry loves it. And he loves that he’s so ticklish and the mole on the sole of his right foot and the heart tattoo on his hip.

He loves all of it.

Every bit of him.

But he hasn’t let himself say it, pressing his lips together every time he comes in case it flies out of his mouth like a bird breaking out of a cage.

 

+++

 

Before Harry knows it, it’s the last week of term, which goes by in a glittery blur of nativity plays, carol concerts and lessons making Christmas decorations. It’s been two weeks since his fight with Ed and when he realises he feels awful because the hole Ed left in his life closed up without him even noticing.

Harry’s mum tells him they’re being ridiculous when she calls to ask what she should buy Ed for Christmas. They are being ridiculous, Harry knows, so that Monday morning, he goes into the Staff Room to find him, but he isn’t there. He isn’t there at lunch either, but as he’s about to ask if anyone’s seen him, someone hands him a card.

‘Who’s this for now?’ he asks, getting a pen out of his satchel with a sullen sigh. He’s sick of signing Christmas cards for parents and governors and God knows who else. He doesn’t know why he’s bothering to ask who it’s for because he writes the same message every time.

_Have a wonderful Christmas and all the best for the New Year_ _– H_.

‘Ed,’ he hears the person say and looks up to find it’s Nigel, the Deputy Head.

‘What?’ he mutters under his breath. Did he forget his birthday? But when he looks at the front of the card it says, _With Sympathy_ and his heart stops. ‘What happened?’

Nigel looks at him like he should know. ‘His mum died.’


	6. Leave No Quality Street Behind

It’s so icy that the pavement is glistening like it’s made of grey glass. Harry shouldn’t run, but he does, his heart punching against his ribs and his satchel banging against his hip as he sprints out of the playground and down Seven Sisters Road. By the time he gets to top of Ed’s street, his breath is coming out of him in clouds and he can feel the familiar grip of panic around his throat, as though someone is tightening their fingers around it. He tugs at his scarf, as if that will help. It doesn’t, of course, so by the time he gets to Ed’s flat, his legs are ready to give way.

Like Harry, Ed lives in a house that’s been converted into flats – one up, one down. Ed lives downstairs, the wooden blinds in his living room open to reveal yellow strips of light that let Harry know he’s in. He should be relieved, but it makes his blood pressure spike, his pace finally slowing as he walks up the path. He makes himself take a breath before he knocks, telling himself to calm down because he’s of new use to Ed like this, sweating and shaking and about to cry. His hair has fallen out of its bun so he tugs the hairband out, wrapping it around his wrist and running his hand through his hair before finally knocking on the front door.

Harry isn’t sure what he expected – he didn’t even _think_ , just ran as soon as Nigel told him what happened – but he’s surprised when Ed opens the door and looks him up and down. Shouldn’t he be crying, Harry thinks as he holds his breath and waits for hug that doesn’t come.

‘Why aren’t you at school?’ he asks with a sullen sigh.

‘I came as soon as I heard.’

‘It’s the last day of term, don’t you have shit to do?’

Harry frowns at him. ‘Nothing more important than this.’

Ed shrugs as if to say, _If you say so_ , then steps back to let him in.

‘Why didn’t you call me?’ Harry asks, still frowning.

Ed ignores him, ambling down the hall towards the kitchen. When Harry follows him in, he’s at the sink with his back to him, filling up the kettle.

‘Tea?’

He doesn’t wait for a response, just puts the kettle on the counter and turns it on.

‘Ed?’ Harry snaps, the panic turning into something sharper. ‘I know we had a fight but _Jesus Christ_. If your mum dies, you fucking call me.’ When Ed ignores him, going over to one of the cupboards and out taking two mugs, Harry exhales through his nose. ‘Is this about Zayn?’ he hisses, shrugging off his satchel and unwinding his scarf.

‘Oh grow up, Harry.’ He doesn’t look at him, just snatches the tea caddy off the counter. ‘We’re not fifteen anymore. There are bigger things to worry about than boyfriends.’

‘Then why didn’t you tell me?’ Harry asks, unbuttoning his coat and throwing it on the table on top of that morning’s _Guardian_. ‘I shouldn’t have had to hear it from Nigel.’

‘Just leave it, Harry.’

‘What is this, Ed?’ he asks, bewildered. ‘Are you punishing me for what I said?’

‘Of course not,’ he huffs, opening the tea caddy and tossing a teabag into each mug.

‘Then why are you being like this?’

‘Because, _Harry_!’ Ed slams the tea caddy on the counter and spins around to face him at last, his hands balled into fists at his sides. ‘I didn’t want you making this about you!’

‘What the fuck?’ Harry takes a step back. ‘Why would I-’

‘She died in a fucking car crash, okay?’

It’s as if he’s walked over to Harry and shoved him. He takes another step back. ‘What?’

‘Yesterday.’ When he stops to rub his forehead, Harry sees his fingers flutter and he wants to walk over and hug him, but he’s shaking so much he can’t move. ‘On the M6.’

‘What?’ Harry breathes. He can feel everything around him softening, the edges of his vision blurring like he’s watching the whole thing play out of his Granddad’s old telly, the black and white one with the bevelled screen that he keeps in the shed to watch the cricket. ‘How?’

Ed wipes away a tear with his knuckle. ‘She’d been Christmas shopping.’ He sniffs and looks down at his socks. ‘She had to go to Selfridges to get Fran a Tiffany necklace she’s been dropping hints about.’ Harry almost smiles. Knowing Ed’s sister, she probably tore a picture of it out of a magazine and stuck it on the fridge. She was subtle like that. ‘She was on her way home when the car in the middle lane ploughed into her, sent her into the central reservation.’

‘Jesus,’ Harry hears himself say.

Ed just shrugs. ‘The driver fell asleep, apparently. Mum didn’t stand a chance.’

Harry opens his mouth to say something, but nothing comes out. Maybe it’s the panic pushing through him, making him so weak he has to lean against one of the kitchen chairs.

Or maybe he just doesn’t know what to say.

‘At least it was quick.’ Ed shrugs again. ‘The paramedics said she didn’t suffer.’

Harry sees it so clearly, the car coming from nowhere, the central reservation suddenly _there_ , right next to her. He can even hear her scream, hear the shopping bags sliding across the back seat of the car and the twist of metal before the windscreen dissolved, showering her with glass confetti. He can smell the petrol, the sour burn of rubber on asphalt as she tries to brake.

Then there’s nothing.

 

+++

 

Harry wakes up on the kitchen floor. He’s in the foetal position, his coat draped over him. Ed is sitting crossed-legged on the floor next to him, his brow furrowed.

‘I’m sorry,’ he says softly when Harry lifts his head.

Harry blinks at him. ‘Sorry for what?’ he murmurs, trying to sit up. Ed has to help him and as soon as he steadies himself, he sighs tenderly. ‘It’s me who should be sorry.’

And he should. Ed’s mother just died, Harry should be comforting him, making him tea and offering to help with calling people so Ed doesn’t have to tell the story twenty-seven times. He knows most of his family, he could help, but here he is on the kitchen floor, being soothed by Ed. He’s right – Harry made this about him – and he’s fucking ashamed of himself.

‘I’m sorry,’ he starts to say, but Ed shakes his head.

‘No it’s my fault. I’m an asshole.’ Harry’s the one who shakes his head this time, but Ed is having none of it. ‘I shouldn’t have told you like that.’

‘How else were you supposed to tell me?’

‘Not like that.’ He stops to lick his lips. ‘This has literally been your worst nightmare since you were five, Harry. I’ve seen you hysterical, begging your mum not to go out, convinced that something like this was going to happen to her. I shouldn’t have yelled at you like that.’

Harry wraps his coat around his shoulders. ‘You’re hurting, Ed.’

‘I am.’ His gaze dips. ‘And I wanted to hurt you too.’

‘Why?’

‘We’re so far apart, Haz.’ His cheeks flush. ‘I don’t know how it happened but I’ve never felt this disconnected from you.’ When he looks up, Harry nods sadly. ‘I’m sorry. I just wanted you to feel a bit of this.’ He presses his hand to his chest. ‘So I’m not the only one.’

 

+++

 

Harry makes tea and when he walks into the living room with two mugs and the tin of Quality Street that was on the kitchen table, Ed shakes his head and smiles.

‘Mum would kill us for opening that before Christmas Day.’

Harry smiles too, putting the mugs on the coffee table and peeling the tape from the edge of the tin. ‘It’s the last day of term. It’s practically Christmas.’

Harry opens the tin, pretending to gag when Ed reaches for a red one.

‘This is why we work, Haz.’ He holds it up proudly. ‘Between us we eat all of them.’

‘Leave no Quality Street behind,’ he nods, taking a purple one.

‘I’ve been thinking,’ Ed says somewhat ominously, when Harry puts the tin down and sits next to him on the sofa. So ominously it makes his heart beat a little slower.

Harry doesn’t look at him, unwrapping his Quality Street carefully. ‘Yeah?’

‘I’m gonna move back home.’

His fingers still. ‘What?’ He looks up, his lips parted. ‘What do you mean?’

‘I think it’s time.’

‘Time for what?’

‘Like you said the other night-’

Harry stops him, holding up his hand. ‘Is this about our fight?’ When Ed shrugs lightly, Harry’s shoulders sink. ‘It was just a dumb fight, Ed. We fight all the time.’

‘Not like that, Haz.’

‘I know.’ Harry looks at the sweet in his hand with a sigh, rewrapping it and twisting the ends. ‘But it’s nothing to do with you. I’m out of my mind with all this shit with Rory.’

‘It’s more than that, Haz, and you know it.’

Harry lifts his eyelashes to look at him again and when he does, Ed tilts his head.

‘You’re right, Haz. I’m always there and it’s not healthy.’

He feels it like a punch, the tops of his ears burning at the memory.

‘I want you to be there, though,’ he says quietly.

‘I know you do,’ Ed says just as quietly, scrubbing his fingers through his hair. ‘But you’re right: you need to work this out for yourself.’ Harry must look as dismayed as he feels because Ed smiles softly at him. ‘You’re doing great, Haz. Seriously. Look how happy you are.’

‘But-’

He doesn’t let him finish. ‘But nothing, Haz. You’ve got this.’

‘Yeah but why do you have to leave London?’

‘I want to.’ Ed’s smile gets a little wider. ‘What you said the other night got me thinking about my life and what I want. I’ve got shit I need to deal with too.’

‘Can’t you do that here?’

‘I need to go home, Harry.’ He nods firmly. ‘I want to go home.’

‘But there’s no one there anymore.’

As soon as he says it, he blushes furiously.

‘I’m sorry.’ He covers his face with his hands and groans. ‘I’m sorry.’

‘Stop it.’ Ed chuckles pulling Harry’s hands away. ‘I know what you meant.’

‘I just meant: home is where my family is.’ He’s pretty sure he’s making it worse but perseveres anyway. ‘It’s not a place. Fran, Gemma and I are here. We’re your family.’

‘I know. But I need to be by myself for a while.’

‘Why?’

‘I need to grieve, Haz. I didn’t do that when Dad died, did I? I just got on with it. I was nineteen. I thought I was indestructible. So I channelled all my energy into helping you because that was something I could do, you know? I couldn’t bring Dad back but I could fix you.’

Harry’s cheeks get hotter.

‘But I can’t fix you – or anyone. I can only fix myself.’

‘Be your own hero,’ Harry mutters. It sounds so cheesy when he says it, but when Zayn said it to him, it made him feel like he could touch the sky.

‘When Dad died, I inherited enough to get through uni and buy this place and now Mum’s gone.’ Ed lifts his shoulder and lets it drop again. ‘I think I’m going to sell this place and buy out Fran’s share of our parents house. With whatever’s left over and my savings, I should have enough to get by for at least a year. Maybe two, if I’m careful.’

‘And do what?’

‘I want to write a TV show.’

Harry’s eyes widen. ‘No fucking way.’

‘About a super hot Asian detective who chases serial killers.’

‘No fucking way!’

‘I’ll need to check with Zayn first, but that’s the plan. I’ve already written an outline.’

‘Ed!’ Harry shoves him. ‘I had no idea you wanted to write for TV! That’s brilliant!’

He smiles clumsily. ‘I think the world’s ready for CSI: Seven Sisters, don’t you?’

 

+++

 

By the time Harry gets home, he’s so exhausted that it’s all he can do not to close the front door and lie face down in the hall until Zayn gets home from work and finds him. The only thing that stops him is hearing that he’s already home. He’s talking to someone and Harry’s shoulders sink. He immediately feels awful, touched that Zayn feels comfortable enough to bring a friend home. It’s probably someone from work or his cousin, Jaavad, who Harry really wants to meet, actually. Just not right now. Not after the day he’s had with Ed. He just wants to snuggle up with Zayn on the sofa, eat a pizza and watch a shit film until he falls asleep. But as Harry approaches the kitchen, Harry realises that Zayn’s on the phone. The muscles in his shoulders relax as he steps into the doorway to find Zayn stirring something on the stove.

‘Mum, it’s got this orange stuff on top of it. Is it supposed to be orange?’ Even though Zayn has his back to him, Harry’s sure he’s frowning as he peers into the saucepan. ‘Are you sure? It looks grim.’ He then turns to the other saucepan, lifting the lid and letting a plume of steam escape. ‘Yeah, it’s been cooking for five minutes. What do you mean don’t take the lid off? I just took the lid off!’ He slams it back on again. ‘Did I ruin it? Should I start again?’

He turns to snatch a bag of rice off the counter, glaring at the cooking instructions. When he looks up again, he sees Harry standing in the doorway and smiles brightly.

‘Gotta go, Mum, he’s home.’ Harry doesn’t know what she says, but it’s enough to make Zayn lower his voice and turn his cheek away. ‘You will, I promise. Just not right now.’ He starts nodding even though she can’t see him. ‘Yes, I’ll talk to him about my birthday, I promise,’ he hisses. ‘Mum, I’ve got to go. Yes, ‘course. I will. I’ll ring you tomorrow, okay? Love you.’

‘What’s going on?’ Harry asks when he hangs up.

‘I cooked.’ Zayn gestures at the stove with a proud smile.

‘You _cooked_?’

‘Yeah. Mum’s chicken curry. It’s on the bone, I hope that’s okay.’

‘Of course it’s okay,’ Harry tells him with a sleepy smile, closing the distance between them in a few strides. Zayn waits, his arms open, hugging him tightly when Harry gets to him. ‘I can’t believe you cooked,’ he says, pressing his cheek to Zayn’s.

‘Thought you’d need it.’ He steps back and looks at him with a frown. ‘How’s Ed?’

‘In bits.’

‘What happened?’

Harry has to catch his breath before he says it. ‘Car crash.’

‘What?’ Zayn presses a kiss to his forehead. ‘Are you okay?’

He takes another step back and sighs miserably. ‘I had a panic attack and passed out.’

‘You poor thing.’

‘No!’ Harry snaps, furious with himself. ‘His mother died not mine!’

‘Don’t be so hard on yourself. It’s your biggest fear. Of course you reacted like that.’

‘That’s why he didn’t tell me,’ Harry mutters, unwinding his scarf with a huff. ‘He didn’t want to tell me that his mother died because he knew I’d make it all about me, like I always do.’

‘Harry-’

‘I am the worst friend. The _fucking_ _worst_!’

‘No you’re not.’ Zayn pulls him into another hug.

Harry lets him, pouting pathetically. ‘Yes, I am.’

‘You’re not. You can’t help it.’

‘I’ve been telling myself that since I was five, Zayn.’

‘Because it’s true.’

Harry groans and dips his head to press his forehead to his. ‘I feel like such a shit.’

‘I know what you need.’ Zayn steps back and reaches for his hand. ‘Come on.’

‘What?’ Harry frowns, as he leads him into the living room.

‘Take your coat off.’

‘What about the curry?’

‘We have time,’ Zayn tells him, helping him with the buttons.

Harry can’t help but laugh when he pushes it over his shoulders. ‘What are you doing?’

‘I realised,’ Zayn says with a mischievous grin, throwing Harry’s coat on the sofa. ‘That I haven’t pulled any cheesy motherfucker moves for a while.’

Harry watches warily as Zayn wanders over to the iPod dock. ‘Yeah?’

‘Yeah,’ Zayn says, touching the screen then turning to face him.

The Way You Look Tonight starts playing and Harry rolls his eyes. ‘Really?’

‘What?’ Zayn says with mock horror. ‘Sinatra’s the OG!’

‘This is peak cheese,’ Harry tells him as Zayn walks back to where he’s standing. ‘Like the _cheesiest_.’ He doesn’t seem bothered, pulling him into him. ‘Thought you didn’t dance?’

‘I sway.’

‘Show me how you sway.’

They move around on the spot like a couple of thirteen-year olds at prom and Harry can’t help but laugh. When Zayn laughs too, Harry has to press his cheek to his when, as if on cue, Sinatra croons, _And that laugh, wrinkles your nose, touches my foolish heart_.

 

+++

 

The curry is perfect, even if Zayn insists that it isn’t as good as his mum’s. They get drunk on beer so don’t watch the film they spent half an hour deliberating over because Harry ends up in Zayn’s lap with his hands in his hair. They kiss with abandon, Zayn sucking a string of bruises down his neck that Harry would usually berate him for, but he doesn’t have to go to work again until the New Year so he can suck one on his forehead if he wants. Harry gets him back though, with a handjob that makes Zayn come so hard he shoots over his shoulder and almost gets Jas who is in her permanent perch on the back of the sofa.

Harry’s never seen her move so fast.

 

+++

 

Harry’s never had a boyfriend before, never had a routine. It should horrify him, how easily they’ve slipped into it, wordlessly dividing the chores between them without bickering or bargaining, as though they’ve been living together for years. Harry stacks the dishwasher and Zayn unstacks it. Harry sorts out the recycling and Zayn takes it out. Harry goes to the supermarket on the way home from work and Zayn comes in an hour later with the wine.

It’s so fucking _normal_ that it worries Harry sometimes. It feels like a lifetime ago since he was in his tiny, draughty flat with his landlord banging on the ceiling. He hasn’t even thought about Rory. He doesn’t hold his breath when he goes back to the flat to check the post and sees a brown envelope in the pile of bills and take away menus, doesn’t cross the street when someone is walking behind him. He doesn’t even check anymore, as if the whole ordeal happened to someone else, a film he watched a week ago and has already forgotten.

That worries him as well, how swiftly he’s moved on. It doesn’t feel real sometimes, when he and Zayn are sharing a mug of tea before they go to work or are tangled up on the sofa watching Arrested Development, as though they’re playing house, or something. They haven’t even fucked yet, but Harry already knows everything about Zayn, from the freckle on his iris to his constant fear that he’s disappointing his father. He tells himself that it’s a good thing, that after everything he’s been through he needs normal. He needs to know that Zayn will get home when he says he will and that he’ll still be there when he wakes up.

‘It shouldn’t be this hard,’ Gemma told him the first time he considered breaking up with Rory. He never forgot that – _It shouldn’t be this hard_ – and now he finally knows what she meant. With Zayn it’s easy. Not convenient, like he’s settling, but easy in the purest sense of the word. Harry doesn’t know how or why but they just _work_. He doesn’t question how Zayn feels about him, doesn’t wonder if he’s tired of him if he doesn’t text him back straight away. He just knows that Zayn will text back as soon as he can and he does.

If that’s boring, then he’ll take that over whatever the fuck he had with Rory any day.

 

+++

 

Harry cleans up while Zayn’s in the shower, putting the leftover chicken curry in a Tupperware container he finds at the back of one of the cupboards. (Ed would laugh his arse off if he told him that the inspiration for his TV show has Tupperware containers. It was probably a gift from his mother and has clearly never been used, but still.) Usually, Harry finishes his lessons plans in bed while Zayn’s in the shower, but it’s the end of term so he doesn’t have any, which is why he’s skulking around the flat, looking for something to do like a restless cat. He’s still tingling from their session on the sofa, so before he can stop himself, he heads into the bathroom, peels off his clothes and knocks on the door to the shower.

Zayn opens it with a frown. ‘You okay, babe?’

‘Hey.’

‘Hey.’

‘I need to have a shower.’

‘I’ll be done in a sec.’

‘I need one now,’ Harry says, raising his voice over the rush of the shower. ‘You know how environmentally conscious I am,’ he explains, which just makes Zayn look more confused.

‘ _Yeah_ ,’ he says carefully then looks at him as if to say, _Are you okay, babe?_

‘It’s like really, really important to me.’

‘Oh.’ Zayn nods, as if he understands. ‘I’ll take the recycling out in the morning.’

‘No, I mean.’ Harry tilts his head. ‘It’s good to save water.’

Zayn’s frown deepens then smoothes when he realises what he’s saying. ‘Of course,’ he steps back with a smile, gesturing at him to get in. ‘You’re a saint. You know that, Styles?’

‘I really am.’

When Harry steps into the shower and closes the door behind him, Zayn’s smile sharpens to a smirk as he looks him up and down.

‘This is the most naked I’ve ever seen you.’

‘You like?’ Harry grins, holding his arms up and giving him a twirl.

‘I like,’ Zayn growls, reaching down and clutching Harry’s ass with both hands.

‘So you’re an ass man?’

‘I don’t have one so I always appreciate a good one.’

‘I have a good ass?’

‘The best.’

He gives it a squeeze.

‘Well,’ Harry says, licking his bottom lip then biting down on it. ‘I’m a…’

He doesn’t say anything, just reaches down between Zayn’s legs.

Zayn waggles his eyebrows. ‘Does that mean I have a good dick then?’

‘The best.’

Harry bows his head and before he’s even kissed him, Zayn closes his eyes and parts his lips with a satisfied sigh. Harry teases him a little, pulling his head back and making Zayn come to him, and when he does, Harry gives his dick a playful tug. That makes Zayn groan again, a sound Harry silences as he dips his tongue into his open mouth. They kiss sloppily, Zayn’s hands sliding up Harry’s back to grasp his hair as the shower beats down on them. They fall against the wall to avoid it, Harry stroking Zayn’s dick until he begins to get hard again.

Zayn peels his mouth away when he does, stopping to tug on Harry’s bottom lip with his teeth before smiling smoothly. ‘Turn around.’

Harry does as he’s told, reluctantly letting go of Zayn’s dick to face the wall. But when Zayn reaches for the shampoo bottle, he hesitates, looking over his shoulder at him.

‘Don’t wash my hair.’ He covers his head with hands.

Zayn stares at him. ‘It’s supposed to be romantic, Harry.’

‘I know,’ he pouts, turning around and peppering Zayn’s jaw with kisses. ‘I know. But I put some argan oil on the ends this morning and I don’t want to wash it out.’

Zayn arches an eyebrow as if to say, _Really?_

‘I appreciate the gesture but not everyone can get out of the shower, toss their hair and look like, well-’ Harry points at him. ‘Some of us have to work at it, you know.’

Zayn rolls his eyes and puts the bottle back. ‘You’re so bad at this.’

‘Good thing you’re cheesy enough for the both of us.’

Zayn grabs him and bites his neck. ‘That’s why we work,’ he says when he steps back. ‘Between my cheesiness and your-’ he stops and frowns. ‘What’s the opposite of cheese?’

‘Ham.’

‘How is ham the opposite of cheese?’

‘They work well together,’ Harry explains. ‘But they’re completely different.’

‘But I don’t eat ham.’

‘Pickle then.’

‘Okay. Between my cheesiness and your pickleness, we balance each other out.’

‘Wait. I don’t want to be pickle. Can I be mustard instead?’

‘You know that you’re not the actual thing, Harry. It’s a metaphor.’

‘I know, but I want to be mustard ‘cos I’m spicy.’

‘You are the literal opposite of spicy, though.’

‘Hey!’ Harry punches him in the arm. ‘I’m spicy.’

‘You’re definitely pickle.’ Zayn shakes his head. ‘A fancy artisan pickle from the farmers’ market that goes well with manchego, or something.’

‘Does that make you my _man_ -chego?’ Zayn looks disgusted. When he sighs and points at the door to the shower, Harry throws his hands up. ‘Oh _come on_! That was quality punage!’

‘Turn around.’

‘What?’ Harry says, looking over his shoulder at him as he faces the wall again.

‘Let me see it.’

‘See what?’

‘Just reminding myself why I put up with you,’ Zayn says, slapping his ass.

‘Hey!’ Harry spins around to face him and punches him in the arm again.

Zayn laughs, loud and bright, pulling Harry into him. He noms on his neck and Harry gasps theatrically, trying to pull away. He doesn’t put up much of a fight though and they stand there for a few moments, holding each other and giggling under the spray of the shower.

Zayn speaks first. ‘So is this it? Are you not even going to give me a hand job?’

Harry laughs so hard he snorts, which is as attractive as it sounds. He’s so embarrassed that he doesn’t need to be told, just turns around so Zayn can slap his ass.

 

+++

 

Harry makes it up to him with a soapy handjob that makes Zayn purr like a kitten. Harry loves it when he’s like this, all drowsy eyelashes and school boy giggles as he kisses Harry’s neck and thanks him, well brought up boy that he is. But before he can finish him off, Zayn steps back.

‘Turn around, babe.’

‘Am I doing it wrong?’ Harry asks with a worried frown as he turns to face the wall.

‘‘Course not.’

‘Why do you want to stop?’

‘I don’t.’

Harry does as he’s told, pressing his palms to the white tiled wall and shivering as Zayn sweeps his wet hair to the side to kiss the back of his neck and breathe into his skin.

‘Open your legs.’

Harry does what he says, biting down on a smile as he watches Zayn reach for the soap. He can’t stop himself when Zayn starts soaping up his erection though, Harry’s mouth flying open with a delighted gasp as Zayn slips it between his legs. ‘Close them,’ Zayn breathes and Harry does, careful not to close them too tightly, just enough to force a slow groan out of Zayn.

Harry waits, unsure what he’s doing, but when Zayn draws his hips back and pushes through Harry’s thighs, he groans too. He does it a few times, slowly at first, but when Harry squeezes his thighs a little closer together, he spits, ‘Fuck,’ grabbing Harry’s hips and thrusting forward. It feels amazing, so good that Harry can no longer support the weight of his head, letting it dip and closing his eyes as he focuses on the feeling of Zayn between his thighs, his dick grazing his balls each time he slips between them, making Harry’s whole body shiver.

‘Fuck, babe,’ Zayn pants, one of his hands slipping up his back to clutch his shoulder.

Harry nods, pressing his lips together to suffocate a moan as he starts fisting himself.

‘Don’t, babe,’ Zayn tells him, but Harry doesn’t realise that he’s shaking his head until Zayn squeezes his shoulder and says, . ‘It’s okay.’

But when Harry forces himself to open his mouth, he says is, ‘I can’t.’

‘It’s okay,’ Zayn says again, but all Harry can hear his Rory’s voice.

_You’ve got a filthy mouth, you know that? Desperate slut._

‘Just say it,’ Zayn pushes, as if he knows.

But he can’t.

‘I’m not going anywhere,’ Zayn says and it’s as if he’s turned a key.

‘I want you to fuck me like this,’ Harry says before he can stop himself.

His cheeks flush and his hand stills when he hears himself, shame flooding through him, but Zayn sighs.

‘Yeah,’ he says between breaths. ‘Gonna fuck you like this. Is that what you want?’

Harry nods.

Zayn slaps his ass. ‘Say it.’

‘Yes!’ Harry hisses as Zayn thrusts harder.

‘Tell me.’

‘Fuck me,’ he pants, closing his eyes and giving into it.

It makes Zayn’s hips falter, but when he recovers, he fucks his thighs harder. Then everything is a blur. Harry can hear himself groaning, groaning and saying, ‘Give me that dick. Give me it,’ over and over as he fists himself furiously. He comes first, throwing his head back, and crying out Zayn’s name. When he does, he must squeeze his thighs shut because he hears Zayn hiss, ‘Fuck!’ He says it so roughly that for a moment, Harry thinks that he’s hurt him, but then he feels Zayn’s fingers digging into his hips as he fucks him harder, so he does it again.

It’s enough. Zayn coming with a demolished groan, as Harry lets his head tip back onto this shoulder so they can kiss.

‘You’re cleaning that up,’ he tells him when he finally steps back, slapping his ass.

‘Why?’ Harry asks, looking over his shoulder and batting his eyelashes..

‘You know why.’

 

+++

 

Zayn falls asleep first. He always does. It’s a gift, really. A clear conscience, his grandmother would have said. Harry doesn’t know what that says about him, but as soon as the light goes out, his brain flicks on, like a projector replaying everything that happened that day. Things he didn’t say, things he should have said, arguments he would have won if he’d thought of that pithy comeback at the time, not at 3 a.m. when it’s just him and the foxes screeching outside.

It’s been better since he moved in with Zayn, the sound of him breathing steadily next to him steadying his own. It’s the only thing that works now, when he closes his eyes and tries to match Zayn, breath for breath. It makes something in him settle like nothing else has before.

Cath says that she’s going to recommend it to her other patients.

It doesn’t work tonight, though, Zayn’s even breathing only showing him how his isn’t. His legs are restless, his hands too. He does this thing when he gets like this, where he rubs the pad of his index finger in circles against the pad of his thumb. The quicker the circles, the more anxious he is, and tonight they’re so fast, he’s pretty sure he’s rubbed his finger prints clean off.

He doesn’t know why. Tonight has been perfect.

Maybe it’s Ed.

It’s probably Ed.

Whatever it is, he’s going to wake Zayn up if he doesn’t stop. So he slips out of bed, tugs on his jeans and paces around the flat, picking up magazines and putting them down again and scrolling through his camera roll. Jas must know that something’s wrong because she pads over and lets him pick her up without protest. It’s supposed to help, Cath says, stroking cats. It lowers your blood pressure, or something. And it does, enough to settle his breathing and make his heart stop banging like he’s just run up a flight of stairs. But there’s something still nudging at him, that feeling when you can’t find your phone or you haven’t studied enough for an exam. An unreachable itch that niggles at him and niggles at him until he can’t sit still.

So he heads out onto the balcony, hoping the fresh air will help. Jas’ concern only extends so far though, which is probably wise, Harry thinks as she returns to the sofa. It’s fucking freezing, the shock of it making his chest so tight that at first it makes his breathing worse. But there’s something kind of nice about it. Fresh. Seeing the air coming out of him in clouds kind of comforting, because it feels like he isn’t breathing at all.

Harry never thought he’d miss the Seven Sisters Road, miss the chicken shop and the drunks and the police sirens. Zayn’s street is so quiet, like being back at home, the windscreens of the cars parked neatly on either side already white with frost, the pavement too, a black cat leaving a trail of paw prints as it trots towards the house on the corner. It’s the kind of street people jog down and hang Christmas wreaths on their doors. A nice street, Harry supposes. There are no drunks or police sirens here. No loud music or couples arguing so passionately they could only be in love. Yet Harry suddenly doesn’t feel safe, stepping away from the edge of the balcony as though someone is watching him. He’s fine when Zayn is there, when he can hear him moving around the kitchen, making tea, or singing in the shower. But now it’s just him, even the black cat gone, he tells himself to go back inside, climb into bed and warm his feet on Zayn’s until he grumbles and pulls him closer. But he’s pacing again, the urge to check the front door making him squeeze his eyes shut and tell himself to calm down. When he opens them again, the door to the balcony is open and there’s Zayn, swaddled in a blanket.

‘You okay, babe?’ he asks, his voice still sticky with sleep.

‘Yeah,’ Harry lies, smiling stiffly.

Zayn doesn’t buy it, padding over and opening his arms. Harry doesn’t resist, stepping into them with a weary sigh and letting him wrap the blanket around him.

‘What’s wrong?’ he asks, nudging Harry with his nose.

‘I don’t know.’

‘Is it Ed?’

‘Probably.’

Zayn leans back to look at him, his eyelashes fluttering drowsily. ‘What is it, babe?’

‘Why haven’t I heard from Rory?’ Harry says, suddenly realising what’s bothering him.

‘What?’

‘Why haven’t I heard from Rory?’

‘Detective Legg probably scared the shit out of him.’

‘She spoke to him?’

‘He’s a slippery fucker. She’s been trying for a while but she finally spoke to him today.’

Harry’s heart throbs. ‘What did he say?’

‘He denied it, of course.’

He should be relieved, but something still nudges at him.

‘But if she only spoke to him today why did the letters stop?’

‘Because you’ve been here.’ Zayn shrugs. ‘He doesn’t know where you are.’

‘He didn’t know where I lived before and that didn’t stop him.’ Harry thinks aloud. ‘He knows where I work thanks to the watermelon fuckery. He could have sent them there.’

Zayn’s gaze narrows. ‘You think he’s up to something?’

‘I don’t know.’ He shakes his head. ‘He was so persistent then the letters just stopped.’

‘But that’s a good thing though, right?’

‘I guess. I just-’ Harry stops to exhale through his nose. ‘It makes no sense. He went from breaking into my flat and threatening to cut me open to _nothing_. Why?’

‘Don’t.’ Zayn pulls him closer. ‘This is what he wants. He isn’t even doing anything and he’s got you worried sick. Just be grateful that he’s stopped.’

 _Has he?_ Harry almost says, but he swallows it back and smiles tightly.

 

+++

 

Harry goes back to bed with Zayn, but he doesn’t sleep. When he gets to Ed’s the next morning, he’s exhausted and expects him to be in a similar state, but he’s wired, excitedly showing him the scene he’s been working on since Harry left. He even acts it out as Harry sits on the sofa, hoping he doesn’t look as startled as he feels as he watches Ed bounce around the living room.

He hasn’t called anyone though, not even the funeral director. ‘It’s a Saturday,’ he tells Harry with a shrug, when he asks, but he doesn’t push it, even though after his grandmother’s funeral he knows that funeral directors are open 24-hours a day.

Harry’s never seen him like this before, so, well, _happy_. You’d think he’d just won the lottery the way he’s smiling. He’s so worried that he calls Zayn while he’s making tea.

‘He’s in denial,’ Zayn says and Harry nods, remembering something he read once about the five stages of grief. So he lets Ed get on with it. In his sleepy stupor, he forgot his phone so has to use Ed’s, scrolling through his phone book and calling everyone he recognises as his family to tell them before checking in with Ed’s sister. Ed doesn’t seem to care what Harry is doing, just taps away on his laptop, only stopping every now and then to read something out to Harry who gives him a thumbs up before going back to the list he and Fran came up with.

Fran deals with the funeral director so Harry does the practical stuff. He finds a pub for the wake and books the caterers (with some help from his mum) and Gemma offers to design the funeral booklet and get it printed. So by lunchtime, between them, they’ve done everything they can do at this point. Fran just needs to choose the flowers and speak to the priest about what hymns and readings she wants. She has no idea and Harry isn’t much help. Abide with me, Zayn suggests when he asks if he knows any, and Harry tears up at the thought.

At 7 o’clock, Ed crashes, too tired to even make it to bed. So Harry leaves him on the sofa, covering him with a blanket and leaving a note asking him to call him when he wakes up. He arranges to meet Zayn in the pub. He hasn’t been back there since the night they met so he smiles soppily as he passes the spot outside where they first kissed. He’s barely through the door before someone grabs his arm and his smile turns into a grin when he turns to face Zayn.

‘I’ve been looking for you,’ Rory says through his teeth, his fingers tightening around the top of Harry’s arm. Even through his coat it hurts. ‘Why aren’t you answering your phone?’

‘I left it at home,’ Harry says, too shocked to lie.

‘What the fuck are you playing at?’

‘Rory, please,’ Harry hisses, trying to pull away. ‘If Zayn sees us, he’ll go mad.’

He holds on tighter. ‘I hope he does.’

‘Rory, please-’

‘No,’ he interrupts, tugging on Harry’s arm. ‘Enough. I’ve had enough of your bullshit.’

Harry nods, knowing that if he fights it, it’ll only make him worse.

‘That fucking copper came to my work. Collared me in the college café.’

‘I’m sorry,’ Harry whimpers when he squeezes his arm.

‘‘The fuck are you doing? I’m not losing my job again because of you.’

‘I’m sorry, Rory.’

‘Fuck sorry, Harry. Just stop. Stop it right now.’

‘I will. I’ll tell them, I swear. I’ll tell the police that it isn’t you sending the letters.’

‘You fucking better or I’ll tell Zayn.’

‘No, Rory.’ Harry’s eyes widen. ‘You can’t.’

‘I fucking will,’ Rory promises with one last tug. ‘I’ll tell him everything.’

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a note to thank you all for being so patient. Writing this chapter after Mum passed wasn't easy so I'm most grateful xx


	7. Baby, it's Cold Outside

Harry has the dream again. It’s been months, months and months. He was sure it was over, but a few hours after seeing Rory, it’s happening again.

It’s so vivid that Harry can feel his hands on him, his impatient fingers digging into his hips and his breath on the back of his neck as he tells Harry to get on his knees on the bed then curls his fingers around his neck and pushes his head down so his cheek is pressed to the mattress. Harry doesn’t fight it, just closes his eyes and inhales the smell of the laundry detergent on the sheets, something sunny. Yellow. Almost like home. He knows not to move, not to make a sound, every bit of him clenched – his teeth, his stomach, his fists – but when he fucks into him, it isn’t enough and he has to give into it. Mercifully, it’s just a whimper, which he manages to muffle in the sheets, filling his mouth with them in case it happens again. But he knows it will. He’ll only be able to stay like this for a few moments before he has to choose between breathing and not making a sound, or else his body will for him. So he tries breathing through his nose, but it doesn’t help and he’s forced to lift his face up from the sheets so that he can suck in a desperate breath. He’s waiting for him to do it and as soon as he does, he thrusts so hard into him, it makes Harry’s eyes water. He lets out a tender groan, which he is punished for immediately with a sharp slap on the ass that makes him shudder with delight.

‘See how much you want it, you fucking slut?’ he tells him, mouth to his ear.

Harry nods because he does. _He fucking does_. He hates it and loves it, all at once. Hates the bitterness, the biting and the bruises, but loves that under it all, he still feels some affection.

Or the promise of it, at least.

‘You did this to me, Harry.’

He nods again because _this_ is the bit Harry loves. He can push and pull him, can wrap his hair around his fist and hold his wrists behind his back, but he isn’t the one in control here, Harry is. That’s why he puts up with it, why he doesn’t tell him to stop, tell him to slow down, that it hurts, because he wants to hurt him, Harry knows. He wants to punish Harry for smiling at him the way he did that first time, the way that turned his life – and his heart – inside out.

‘You did this to me.’ His voice is weaker this time. ‘You made me like this.’ He pulls Harry’s hair until he yelps. ‘I hate you. _I fucking hate you_. I wasn’t like this until I met you.’

Harry wakes with a start, which is enough to wake Zayn as well.

‘You okay, babe?’ he asks, turning on the light.

When Harry realises that he has a hard on, he flushes with shame.

‘Fine,’ he murmurs, covering it with his hand and slipping out of bed. ‘Bad dream.’

He doesn’t hear what Zayn says after that, dipping his head and hiding behind his hair as he paces towards the bathroom. As soon as he closes the door, he lets go of the breath he’s been holding in and covers his face with his hands so Zayn doesn’t hear the sob that escapes with it. He must though, because Harry can hear him kicking back the duvet.

‘I’m fine,’ he shouts through the door, his heart hammering. ‘I’m fine.’

There’s a moment of unsure silence then he hears Zayn’s ask quietly, ‘You sure, babe?’

‘I’m fine,’ he tells him again, not waiting for a response as, for the first time since he moved in, he locks the door.

 

+++

 

It’s been a while since Harry threw up like this. There was a time his anxiety was so bad that he puked two or three times a day. For years the hollow ache in his stomach was unrelenting, as though someone had scooped out his insides with an ice-cream spoon. It was an on-going battle with his mother, who, by the time he was fourteen, had convinced herself that he had an eating disorder. He didn’t, it was just that if he ate, it hurt and if he didn’t eat, it hurt, so Harry figured he may as well not eat at all, that way he’d have nothing to throw up. The logic of it made sense to him, but it didn’t work because not eating just made him weak, made his legs buckle when he was trying to climb the rope in gym and fall asleep in class. Then things got so bad that he couldn’t go to school at all and _Jesus_ , just the memory of it is enough to make him heave again, because even though he didn’t dare say it at the time, he was pretty sure he was fucking dying.

That’s why he eats so well. Everyone takes the piss out of him for it (and they’re right to because it’s become another of his obsessions) but Harry doesn’t care because it works. It started with the ginger tea his mother used to make him drink to settle his stomach which actually _helped_ , much to his surprise. Then Ed read somewhere that there was link between healthy eating and anxiety. Harry rolled his eyes, but he looked into it and Ed was right: if his body was healthy then he’d have the strength to deal with the other shit. So he made himself eat regularly, which helped, not necessarily the food itself, but it forced him to be social. He ate lunch with Ed at school then had dinner with his family and after a few weeks he got into a routine and things started to feel more normal. Perhaps normal isn’t the right word, (he’ll never be that, will he?) but it’s what normal people did and Harry wanted so much to be normal.

So now he’s one of those tedious people who goes to bed early and does juice cleanses. He’s even got Gemma and her mates into it, their _WhatsApp_ group constantly swapping recipes and over sharing when they reach the stage when the whole world falls out of their ass. (Last time, the result of Harry’s cleanse was so furious he’s almost certain he passed some of the cake he had on his 16 th birthday.) They draw the line at yoga though, which is probably for the best because Harry doesn’t need the distraction and they certainly don’t join him in trying to avoid stimulants like caffeine, alcohol and sugar because they fuck with his mood.

Now he thinks about it, that probably explains why he’s such a mess at the moment: his routine’s shot to shit. He’s stopped doing yoga every day and started drinking tea and coffee again. Plus, he’s drinking every night with Zayn, even if it’s just a glass of red wine.

No wonder his anxiety is through the fucking roof.

That’s what he’s thinking about while he’s clutching the toilet bowl, how being normal makes him not normal and that makes him realise how truly fucked up he is.

It’s Rory’s fault. He always does this, makes Harry doubt himself. Doubt _everything_ until he doesn’t know left from right, up from down. It’s kind of like waking up from a nap and not knowing where you are. Except Harry doesn’t know _who_ he is. He looks at his hands and they don’t look like his, his tattoos strange scribbles he doesn’t understand.

His instinct is to run, to wait until Zayn falls asleep again then run as far and as fast as he can. But he can’t move. It’s as if Rory has kicked a door in. Everything is coming back to him, all at once. Things he’d forgotten, things he had to forget. Secrets he tucked in that unreachable corner where no one would find them. It makes him dizzy as they war inside him, like moths in a dark room seeking out the crack of light under the door.

Zayn knocks again and Harry almost jumps clean out of his skin. _Go_ , he wants to roar as he sinks to the bathroom floor. ‘Let me go,’ Harry murmurs over and over. ‘Let me go, let me go, let me go.’ But he knocks again, so Harry makes himself stand up and turn on the tap so he can’t hear him because if he asks him again if he’s okay, he’s going to tell him and he can’t.

He can’t.

‘Babe, open the door.’

Harry closes his eyes, ignoring him as he fills his hands with cold water.

‘Do you need anything, babe?’

Harry splashes his face and the relief of it seems to make his whole body sigh.

‘Harry, please open the door. I just want to know if you’re okay.’

‘I’m fine,’ he lies, splashing his face again then turning off the tap.

He’s quiet for a few moments and Harry thinks he’s gone. But then he hears Zayn say, ‘I’m not going anywhere’ and it’s enough to make him heave again. He manages to swallow it back this time, the bile burning his throat as he lifts his head to look at himself in the mirror, at the shadows under his eyes and the water dripping off his chin onto the edge of the sink.

 _You will_.

 

+++

 

Harry gives in first – always gives in first – reaching over to unlock the bathroom door.

‘Shit, babe,’ Zayn says with a worried frown when he opens it to find him standing by the sink, naked and shivering. ‘Come here.’ He reaches for the white robe on the back of the door and wraps it around him. ‘You must be fucking freezing.’

‘I’m okay.’

‘You don’t look it.’ He kisses his sweaty forehead. ‘Was it something you ate?’

‘Must be.’

‘Do you want some water?’

‘No.’ Harry reaches for the sleeve of his sweatshirt to stop him. ‘I’m okay.’ He lifts his eyelashes to look at him. When he does, Zayn’s frown deepens and he looks so concerned that it almost spills out of him, but he bites his tongue. ‘I just need to get some sleep.’

‘Okay.’

Zayn tries to help him, but Harry shrugs him off, telling him that he can do it as he crawls back into bed, still swaddled in Zayn’s robe. He offers to get him some water and when he returns from the kitchen, Harry pretends to be asleep. Zayn doesn’t buy it, saying his name as he puts the glass on the bedside table. Harry doesn’t budge though and it’s so fucking juvenile he wants to pull the duvet over his head he’s so embarrassed, but he has to. Zayn knows that he’s lying, he knows this is more than food poisoning from a dodgy burger. So if Harry responds, he’s going to ask him again if there’s something wrong and when he does, he’s so weak – so weak and tired and scared – that he’ll just blurt it out and he can’t.

So he waits for Zayn to give up and turn off the light.

As soon as he does, Harry opens his eyes again.

 

+++

 

Neither of them sleep, but they pretend to. They don’t even touch each other, a stretch of white sheet between them that suddenly feels impassable as Harry stares at the crack in the curtains, waiting for the sun to rise. Before it does, Zayn’s phone rings. He answers it on the second ring and when Harry realises it’s work, he’s so relieved he can’t help but smile.

‘It’s okay,’ he tells him, kissing his cheek. ‘Go. I’ll be fine.’

Zayn doesn’t buy that either, but goes anyway.

 

+++

 

Harry spends the day with Gemma, who knows him well enough not to push it when he tells her that he’s fine. Harry offers to make Sunday lunch because he needs something to do and there’s something kind of comforting about cooking, about peeling potatoes and chopping carrots. He likes the precision of it, that the timing has to be _just so_ otherwise the chicken will be too dry or the roasties too hard. It’s the first thing that’s managed to calm him down since he saw Rory, quietly moving around the tiny kitchen while Gemma and her housemates sit, legs tangled on the only sofa, drinking tea and complaining about their hangovers and work and only having £50 to last until the New Year. It’s so fucking normal that it makes Harry feel calmer as well, how the world just goes on like that. Tomorrow morning they’ll go to work, the bloke they met last night won’t call and the best part of that £50 will be spent in the pub overanalysing it.

Harry should be envious, he supposes. Anyone watching them right now would think they didn’t have a problem in the world, but he knows that the three of them are kept awake at night worrying about everything from credit card debit to bulimia.

You’ll never know the secret things that make people cry themselves to sleep.

 

+++

 

On the way home, Harry passes a guy selling Christmas trees outside the tube. They’re only a tenner, so he’s pretty sure they’re moody and can’t help but smirk at the thought of a police officer having stolen goods in his flat. He manages to lug it up the road to the flat then into the lift, but as soon as he drags it into the flat, leaving a trail of pine needles behind him, he stops.

Zayn’s Muslim.

Harry curses himself, leaning the tree against the wall and bending down to pick up Jas who’s padded in to see what’s going on. ‘Your dad doesn’t celebrate Christmas, does he?’ he sighs, kissing her on the top of her head. She doesn’t care, mewling at him for her dinner as Harry realises that he has to get the tree out of there before Zayn gets home and is mortally offended. But as he’s putting Jas down, he glances at the bookshelf and sees the framed photo of Zayn’s sister, Doniya, hugging the _Ugg_ boots he gave her one year. There’s a tree behind her and he should be relieved, but feels a knot in his throat as he realises that it’s their first Christmas. They should be hiding presents from each other and wearing awful matching jumpers, or at least bickering about how Zayn doesn’t want to wear awful matching jumpers. But as Harry looks sadly at the tree, he already knows that it will outlast them.

 

+++

 

‘What is _that_?’ he hears Zayn say when he walks into the flat.

‘You’re back,’ Harry says, poking his head out of the kitchen. He has Jas’ bowl in one hand and a fork in the other as she meows grumpily at his feet as if to say, _Don’t worry about that, just give me my dinner_. ‘It was supposed to be a surprise.’

‘Well, I’m surprised.’

‘Good surprised?’

Zayn tilts his head at him and smiles smoothly. ‘‘Course.’

‘Good.’ He goes back into the kitchen to feed Jas. ‘I was worried.’

‘Why?’ Zayn asks, walking down the hall towards him.

Harry doesn’t look up when he comes into the kitchen. ‘It’s your flat. I should have asked,’ he murmurs, pretending to be absorbed by Jas’ dinner so he doesn’t have to look at him.

‘ _Our_ flat.’

He kisses him on the cheek and Harry smiles tightly. ‘Still.’

Zayn must feel him tense because he asks, ‘You okay, babe?’

Luckily, Jas interrupts, tired of waiting and jumping up onto the kitchen counter.

‘Down,’ Zayn says firmly.

She ignores him, only jumping down when Harry finally puts her bowl on the floor.

‘I’m sorry about last night,’ Harry says feebly as he walks over to the sink to wash his hands.

‘You feeling better?’

‘Yeah.’ He nods, scrubbing at his hands until they’re red raw. ‘Hung out at Gem’s today. Made roast dinner. Chicken,’ he adds before Zayn can ask anything else. ‘Made the gravy from scratch.’

Zayn takes the hint.

‘I’ll dig out the Christmas decorations,’ he says quietly, heading out of the kitchen.

 

+++

 

Harry’s fighting with the tree stand and losing when Zayn walks into the living room.

‘Here,’ he says, putting the boxes and bags he’s found in the cupboard in the hall on the sofa and coming over to help him. ‘Are you sure this stand is the right size for it?’

‘The bloke said it was.’

‘Bloke?’ Zayn arches an eyebrow. ‘Should I ask where this tree came from?’

Harry manages a smirk. ‘Best not to.’

They cheer when they finally get it into the stand. It’s wonky and so big it blocks half the television screen, but Zayn seems thrilled.

He grins at it, then at Harry. ‘Our first tree!’

The knot in Harry’s throat tightens.

 

+++

 

Zayn finds some Christmas music on Spotify, which is a relief because the silence is so awkward it’s making Harry’s ears burn as he focuses on hanging the decorations as carefully as he can. His hands are shaking so much that he’s already smashed one, so when he drops another, he’s furious with himself, making a fuss of sweeping up the broken pieces so that he can have a few moments alone in the kitchen. When he empties the broken glass into the bin, his stomach lurches at the thought of going back into the living room and has to stop himself from running for the front door. He doesn’t, of course. That would require some courage and Harry clearly doesn’t have any of that otherwise he would have told Zayn. That would be the kind thing to do, to tell him now, while it’s just the two of them. But each time he finds the breath to, Zayn looks at him and smiles and the moment goes, as though it’s a soap bubble he’s popped with his finger.

 _Just do it_ , Harry tells himself. _Do it before Rory does_. _He should hear it from you_.

‘Are there enough lights?’ Zayn says before he can.

When Harry looks up, Zayn’s frowning like a little kid, and the moment is so, so perfect that he can’t bear to ruin it. _Just let me have this_ , he pleads, trying to take all of it – the flicker of the lights and the smell of bruised pine needles from where they shoved the tree into the stand, Zayn humming along to Last Christmas as he hangs the baubles, Jas curled up in one of the empty boxes, fast asleep – and tucking each thing into his pockets, saving them for later, for when he’s back in his miserable, drafty flat, cursing himself for fucking everything up again.

‘No. It’s perfect,’ he tells him, because it is.

It’s all so perfect.

Zayn smiles, clearly relieved that Harry’s talking again after an hour of near silence. He looks so happy that it makes Harry’s heart soar then crash to the pit of his stomach like a cheap firework as he asks himself if this is who he is now, a selfish asshole who cares more about taking what he can for later than what it will do to Zayn when he tells him the truth.

Maybe he is.

Maybe Rory’s right.

Maybe he does know the real him.

 

+++

 

When they’re done, Harry insists they celebrate at the pub. Zayn’s bewildered given they’ve just spent a couple of hours decorating the tree until it’s fit for a shop window. He’s right, of course, they should sit on the sofa and look at it, hold hands and drink mulled wine and kiss while Ella Fitzgerald and Louis Jordan remind them how cold it is outside. But Harry can’t be alone with him, too scared that he’ll tell him if he is. He just wants _one more night_ , which is cruel and greedy and unfair but he wants Zayn’s last memory of him to be this: Harry laughing and reaching for his hand in the street, pulling him close, the moonlight catching in his eyelashes as he kisses him and says, ‘See? It’s not so cold outside, baby.’

 

+++

 

When they walk into the pub, it’s so busy it makes Harry feel lightheaded. People say hello as they pass through the crowd, trying to find a free table, but Harry doesn’t recognise any of them, as though he’s never been there before. The cramped pub feels strange, too hot and too small, the music too loud as they give up trying to find a table and retreat into a corner. It’s by the men’s toilet, the smell making Harry’s stomach quiver every time the door swings open. It must be obvious that he’s about to puke, because Zayn asks him if he wants to get out of there. Harry nods gratefully, not reaching for his hand this time as he pushes his way back out of the pub.

They end up in the café across the road and sit by the steamed up window, not looking at one another. Zayn’s given up asking if he’s okay and is now just chatting breathlessly, desperately trying to fill the silence filling the space between them like smoke. Zayn’s not a chatter – Harry’s the one who usually doesn’t stop for breath while Zayn nods and says, ‘Yeah’ in all the right places – so bless him, he’s babbling. It’s nonsense as far as Harry can tell, Zayn saying anything – shit that happened at work and a story in the Metro about a fox and a kitten who are best friends – while Harry nods and says, ‘Yeah’ in all the right places.

But he’s not there. It feels like he’s across the street, watching the scene play out: Zayn chatting cheerfully while Harry sits hunched at the table, playing with the sugar bowl, scooping a spoonful then holding up the teaspoon and letting the sugar fall back into the bowl. He does it over and over until Zayn nudges him under the table. When he looks up Zayn points at the window. He’s drawn a heart in the condensation.

Harry blinks at it.

‘Too subtle?’ he chuckles when Harry doesn’t say anything. ‘I should just say it.’

_It?_

Harry frowns then his heart clenches like a fist.

_Don’t say it._

_Don’t say it._

_Don’t say it_.

 _Don’t_.

 _Don’t_.

 _Don’t_.

Zayn grins, but Harry makes sure he speaks first. ‘I think we should break up.’

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've decided to split the last part in two, because this ending was too good. What can I say? I'm an asshole like that. Don't worry though, I'll update the rest by the end of the week so you won't be left hanging too long! xx


	8. Mind the Gap

Zayn laughs – of course he laughs – but when Harry doesn’t, his face falls.

‘Babe?’

‘I think we should break up,’ Harry says again, as if it will make sense this time.

‘What do you mean?’

‘What do you think I mean?’

Harry doesn’t recognise his voice, the back of his neck flushing when he hears how hard he sounds, how detached, as though Zayn is some random hitting on him in a pub and he’s not interested. Zayn must hear it too because he stares at him.

‘You’re joking, right?’ He says it so gently, like the words are made of glass and he’s afraid of cutting his tongue on them. He frowns at Harry, waiting for him to laugh, and he looks so vulnerable that it makes Harry’s resolve waver for a moment. He has to fight the urge to lean across the table and kiss away the pinched skin between his eyebrows, but then he remembers the alternative and whatever it is that opened in him, closes again.

‘The fuck, Harry?’ Zayn spits when he just looks across the table at him.

‘It’s for the best,’ Harry says firmly, and it is.

He’d rather Zayn think he was an asshole then know the truth.

‘The _best_?’ Zayn squeezes his eyes shut then opens them again, as if he’s trying to wake himself up from a bad dream. When Harry doesn’t flinch – doesn’t smile or reach for his hand and tell him that everything is going to be okay – Zayn sits back. The look he gives him across the table lets Harry know that he doesn’t need to say anything else.

It’s over.

The reality of it is like a slap across the cheek that brings tears to his eyes. He turns his cheek away, hiding behind his hair so he doesn’t see them, but Zayn isn’t having any of it.

‘You not even going to fucking look at me?’

Harry turns his cheek to meet his gaze, but Zayn’s face is so hard, he looks away again.

‘I said _look at me_ , you prick,’ Zayn says through he teeth when he does. ‘If you’re going to do this, have the fucking decency to look me in the eye.’

Harry looks at him, disguising his discomfort with a surly sigh.

‘Why are you being like this?’

Harry’s gaze dips to his half-empty cup of coffee. ‘Like what?’

‘Like _this_. Like a little prick.’

He all but spits it – _prick_ – and it makes Harry sit back and cross his arms.

‘I don’t get it,’ Zayn says tightly, so tightly, each word seems to snap off his tongue. ‘Yesterday we were talking about you coming to Bradford for my birthday-’

‘ _You_ were talking about me coming to Bradford for your birthday,’ Harry interrupts.

Zayn stares at him. ‘What’s got into you?’ He raises his voice. They’re the only ones in the café but Harry still makes a show of looking around at the empty tables as if he’s showing them up. ‘Harry!’ he barks, waiting for him to look at him again. ‘What changed?’

Harry shrugs, pushing the sugar bowl away. ‘Nothing.’

‘Something must have changed?’

He shrugs again and Zayn gives him a look that tells Harry that if he shrugs one more time he’s going to come across the table at him.

‘Well, you’ve fucking changed!’ he barks, his jaw clenching.

Zayn’s right, he has changed. He can feel it, how hard his heart is. Actually he can’t feel his heart at all anymore, as if he’s locked it away in a box so Zayn can’t touch it.

‘Maybe,’ Harry concedes with another sullen shrug.

‘What is happening?’ Zayn throws his hands up. ‘Where’s the Harry I just decorated the Christmas tree with?’ When he doesn’t look at him, he slams his fist on the table so hard, Harry’s gaze jumps up to meet his. ‘Who _are_ you? This is like Jekyll and Hyde, or something!’

Harry rolls his eyes as if to say, _Don’t be so melodramatic_ and Zayn points at him

‘Why are you being like this? I don’t even know who you are right now, Harry.’

‘That’s the problem,’ he murmurs and that’s it.

‘You know what? Fuck this!’ Zayn pushes away from the table so suddenly, cold coffee sloshes out of Harry’s mug and onto the table between them. When he stands up, he waits for Harry to stop him, and when he doesn’t, he chuckles bitterly. ‘So that’s it? We’re done?’

Harry shrugs again. ‘I guess so.’

‘I’m a fucking idiot.’

_No, you’re not_ , Harry almost says but bites down so hard on his tongue he tastes blood.

‘Such an idiot.’

Zayn snatches his coat off the chair with such force it topples over, making the woman behind the counter hiss and mutter something at them in Polish. Harry watches him go, but as soon as the door snaps shut, he’s on his feet before he can tell himself to let him go.

When Harry gets outside, he’s halfway down the road and has to sprint to catch up.

‘Zayn,’ he says, reaching for his sleeve, but he shrugs him off.

‘Don’t fucking touch me!’ He looks at him with such contempt, Harry takes a step back.

‘Zayn, please,’ he says softly.

He stops then, spinning around to face him. ‘I’m about to tell you that I love you and you want to break up.’ He looks devastated and Harry takes a step towards him then makes himself step back again. When he does, Zayn shakes his head. ‘I told my mother about you!’

It would hurt less if Zayn punched him in the fucking face, the pain in his voice enough to make Harry take another step back so he doesn’t reach for him and sob into his coat. They stand on the pavement, staring at each other, the streetlight catching in Zayn’s hair so he almost doesn’t look real, like the light is coming from under his skin. He looks so fucking beautiful that Harry feels like a monster. An awful, ugly monster who tricked him into loving him and now they’re in the light, Zayn can finally see him for who – and what – he is.

‘Fucking say something, Harry!’ he roars. ‘Say something!’

The words are there, Harry can feel the weight of each one on his tongue – _I’m sorry. I didn’t mean it. Don’t leave me_. _I love you. I love you. I love you._ – but he swallows each one back because if he says them, it will be for him, not Zayn.

He deserves better than this.

Better than him.

 

+++

 

Harry watches him go, every cell in his body screaming at him to go after him. _RUN. RUN. RUN_. But he doesn’t – he can’t – giving in to the tears he’s been fighting as he watches Zayn’s figure getting smaller and smaller as he retreats up the road. Harry curses himself under his breath, wiping his cheeks with the sleeve of his coat as he tells himself again that this is for the best, even though it doesn’t feel like it at all. Then Zayn disappears around the corner and he’s gone – really gone – and the horror of it makes Harry’s legs so weak, he has to close his eyes and lean against the lamppost he’s standing under.

He can feel his phone ringing in his pocket and ignores it, but the thought that it might be Zayn makes his heart leap onto his tongue as he reaches into his coat.

But it isn’t.

He almost rejects the call, but when he sees it’s Ed, he answers.

‘You okay, bro?’

Harry tries to sound as cheerful as he can, but he obviously fails because there’s a second of silence before he hears Ed ask, ‘Are _you_ okay, Haz?’

‘Yeah,’ he lies, looking down at his scuffed boots. ‘You?’

‘Yeah. Sorry about today.’

‘No worries,’ Harry says gently in case Ed thinks that’s why he sounds weird. ‘It was just Sunday lunch, nothing special. You and Fran needed to spend some time together.’

‘It was so much fun,’ Ed sighs tenderly. ‘Nothing but hymns and flowers.’

Harry stands up, ashamed with himself as he remembers what Ed is going through. _Pull yourself to-fucking-gether_ , he tells himself, but then his cheeks flush with guilt as he realises that he’s taking comfort in the fact that things could be worse.

That he’s not Ed.

Some fucking friend.

‘What are you doing?’ Ed asks, and Harry goes rigid, as if he knows what he’s just done.

‘Nothing,’ he says, shooting for casual, but landing on defensive instead.

‘Wanna come over?’

Harry frowns. ‘Now?’

‘There’s a Law & Order: SVU marathon on Universal. That’s a lot of Stabler,’ he adds hopefully, but when Harry hesitates, he says, ‘Sorry. It’s late, I know. Don’t worry.’

‘No,’ Harry says, the relief as he realises that he doesn’t have to go back to the flat and see Zayn making him giddy. ‘It’s perfect timing, actually.’

‘Yeah?’ Ed sounds pleasantly surprised. ‘Brilliant. See you in a bit?’

‘I’ll be there in fifteen.’

 

+++

 

Harry doesn’t tell Ed what he’s done, even when he asks about Rory.

‘I was thinking,’ he says, almost to himself. ‘You changed your number after Rory called that night at the pub, right? The night you met Zayn. I remember ‘cos you were worried that Zayn would think you’re a mentalist for changing your number the day after you gave it to him.’

_Too late for that_ , Harry thinks, rummaging through the tin of Quality Street which is now almost empty and made up mostly of the crap ones. His persistence pays off, though, because he finds a green triangle, unwrapping it with a grin and popping it in his mouth.

‘And you didn’t keep your old number, right? You got rid of it.’

Harry nods, unsure where he’s going with this.

‘So the night you met up with him-’ Harry interrupts with a groan, but Ed kicks him. ‘Not that. I told you: I’m over it.’

‘I’m not,’ Harry mutters around a mouthful of chocolate. ‘I was such an asshole.’

Ed doesn’t miss a beat. ‘You’re always an asshole.’ He smirks. ‘No, I mean, how did Rory call you to ask you to meet up that night if he didn’t have your new number?’

‘I dunno.’ Harry frowns, letting his head tip back onto the sofa cushion.

He hadn’t thought about it. How did Rory get his new number? he asks himself, drumming his stomach with his hands. And why did he answer the phone to a unknown number? His heartbeat slows to a dull thud as he tries to recall what happened that night. It’s still a mess. He can’t even remember speaking to Rory, just the panic that pinched and punched at him until he was alone in that bar, on his second shot of _Jack_. So he reaches into his jeans for his phone, scrolling through his recent calls until he sees Rory’s name and stops. His fingers flutter as he checks his contacts and sure enough, there it is: Rory’s number saved on his phone.

Harry called him.

‘It doesn’t make any sense.’ Ed shakes his head. ‘How did he get your new number?’

Harry shoves his phone back into his pocket. ‘How did he get it the first time?’

‘True.’ Ed nods. ‘God, he’s a resourceful bastard, isn’t he?’

‘Yeah,’ Harry murmurs, relieved that he seems satisfied with that explanation.

Before he can ask any more questions, Harry points at the screen and starts babbling about Ed’s one true love, Olivia Benson. Then it’s forgotten as Ed goes off on one about how underrated Mariska Hargitay is. Harry agrees, mentioning the Emmys, and that’s it, fifteen minutes later, Ed’s still ranting about how it’s shameful that she hasn’t won one since 2006.

Harry lets go of a breath and closes his eyes, giving into it, to how normal it feels to be back on Ed’s sofa, drinking tea and doing the _DUM DUM_ s between each scene of Law & Order. By 1 a.m., he’s convinced himself that nothing is wrong, that everything is fine, that the last few weeks – Zayn, Rory, all of it – haven’t happened and it’s just another night in with Ed.

Like old times.

It isn’t until he wakes up and doesn’t know where he is that he remembers. He looks for Jas when he realises that he’s on sofa, a blanket over him, but when he sees that she’s not there, that he’s not at home – he’s at Ed – he sucks in a shaky breath and lies back on the sofa with a tender sigh. He holds his breath as he checks his phone. Zayn hasn’t called and he isn’t surprised, but he is disappointed, his shoulders sinking as he calls his voicemail just in case.

_You have no new messages_.

 

+++

 

Harry can’t sleep after that, hiding his phone in one of the kitchen drawers before he gives into the urge to call Zayn and apologise, take it all back. At one point he convinces himself that they can do this, that they can carry on the way they were. If Rory tells him, Harry can deny it. Zayn would believe him, he could make Zayn believe him. Maybe they could move, somewhere Rory won’t find them. They could go to Bradford. Or they could start again, change their names and rent a house by the coast, get a dog and a 4X4 with a tartan blanket on the backseat. Zayn could be the village policeman and he could teach at the local school and they could be happy.

Really happy.

But then he gets a text, his heart soaring then crashing when he sees it’s from Rory.

_Have you told him?_

 

+++

 

He makes sure he leaves before Ed wakes up, closing the front door carefully and taking a deep breath as he steps out onto the doorstep. It’s not even 7 a.m. but the Monday morning traffic on the Seven Sisters Road is already picking up, the procession of cars and buses white with frost as the commuters walk around him like he isn’t there in their mission towards the tube.

By the time he gets there, the station is heaving. Harry manages to stick his arm out to grab a copy of the Metro before the crowd carries him towards the ticket barriers. It happens so quickly that he doesn’t have time to find his Oyster card, the bloke behind him cursing under his breath when Harry stops to rummage through his satchel. ‘Sorry,’ he says with a bright smile. ‘I usually walk to work.’ But the guy just rolls his eyes when Harry finally taps his Oyster card on the reader and joins the stream of people heading towards the escalators.

Getting a newspaper was optimistic, the platform so busy he can’t even raise his arms to read it. _This is normal_ , he tells himself, _I am normal_ , his heart stopping every time someone shoves past him. He’s sure that one of them is going to knock him onto the tracks, the pointed toes of his boots inching a little further over the yellow line each time they pass. He has to get out, but he can’t, the platform four people deep. So he focuses on his breathing, telling himself that he’s fine, that people go to and from work on the tube every day and nothing happens. But because he doesn’t do it every day, he doesn’t know where to stand so he’s near one of the doors. He has to let two trains pass before he manages to shuffle along the platform to the right spot, unreasonably proud of himself when the next one arrives and the doors open in front of him.

Given how ruthless it’s been until now, all elbows and laptop bags and huffy men in suits, this part is surprisingly civilised, the crowd parting politely to let everyone off the train first. Unfortunately, Harry is standing on the side nearest the exit, so has to stand there as everyone getting off pushes past him, watching helplessly as everyone else gets on before him. There’s no room, but he’s determined to get on, sure that he’s about thirty seconds away from a panic attack if he doesn’t. He immediately regrets it, though, the train lurching forward so suddenly it knocks the breath out of him, his heart making the same rattling sound in his ears.

It’s only four stops but by the time he gets to Kings Cross, he has to get off. He’s about to when he’s sees Rory on the platform and freezes, the woman behind him knocking him with her suitcase as she shoves past him out of the doors. Harry reaches out to steady himself, leaving a palm print on the glass partition as he stares at Rory, who’s nodding along to whatever he’s listening to. He looks up, as if he knows Harry is watching, and when their eyes meet, Harry’s heart unclenches as he realises that it isn’t Rory. He’s lightheaded with relief, but before he can compose himself enough to get off, the doors close and the train clatters on to the next stop.

 

+++

 

When he finally emerges from the underground and into the bright light of the street, Harry closes his eyes and lifts his face towards the sky like Andy Dufresne at the end of Shawshank Redemption. There’s more swearing as people move around him, but he doesn’t care, waiting for the watery feeling in his legs to pass before he turns and heads up the road.

By the time he gets there, it’s not even 8 o’clock. It’s too early, he won’t be at work yet, he thinks, and finds a Starbucks. That’s busy too, Harry tensing every time someone sweeps past him as he waits in the queue, the cappuccino machine making him jump each time it hisses. By the time he gets the counter, he doesn’t even want anything, but orders a tea because he needs to sit down. Unfortunately, every table is taken so he’s forced to share one with a man in a neat suit who agrees with a grunt but makes no attempt to clear his paperwork off the table.

Harry ignores him, turning to face the window so he can see him if he passes. There’s no room on the table, so he has to balance his mug on his knee. He doesn’t realise how nervous he is until he feels the burn of tea through his jeans. His hand is shaking too, shaking so much that he has to put the mug down, not bothering to ask as he makes space on the table between a blue folder and a copy of the Telegraph. Clearly furious that Harry’s touched his stuff, the man makes a very long, very _loud_ , phone call to someone called Marcus. He has one of those voices, the cheeky cockney cadence of an estate agent or a salesman, that plucks at each one of Harry’s nerves as he tries to focus on the busy street outside, hoping for a glimpse of him.

He makes himself sit very, very still, but it doesn’t work, his voice getting steadily louder until Harry has to close his eyes and focus on his breathing. The bustle of the café isn’t helping either, people sweeping in and out, in and out, in and out, knocking the back of Harry’s chair as they grab their morning coffee, shouting over the hiss and spit of the cappuccino machine as the barista bangs the filter against it until the spent coffee grounds fall out. Sensory overload, Cath calls it. Harry had no idea it was a thing until she told him, that it wasn’t just him, that he wasn’t the only one who wants to cry and cover his ears sometimes.

He just thought he was an antisocial asshole.

He has to get out of there, but when he stands up and has to sit back down again, he realises it’s too late. He closes his eyes and sucks in a breath, waiting a second or two before he tries again. When he does, he lurches towards the guy moving between the tables, stacking empty mugs into a grey plastic tub. ‘Toilet?’ Harry mutters and the guy nods towards the back. There’s someone in it, but Harry can’t wait, just about making it into the disabled toilet before he’s spilling his guts down the toilet. He manages to grab his hair in time, trying not to think about the piss splattered toilet seat and the nappy someone’s tried – and failed – to stuff in the sanitary bin. But he does, of course, and throws up again. He can’t remember the last time he ate (Sunday lunch with Gem?) so nothing comes out, just a stream of bile that burns his throat.

When he’s done, he flushes the toilet and wipes his mouth with his sleeve. He has to wait, hands on his knees, before he takes a deep breath and straightens. His back is fucking _killing_ him. He’s pretty sure this is how he did it in, bending over toilets for years, but however he did it, he feels about eighty as he turns to face the grubby mirror. He can’t look at himself turns on the tap, washing the sour taste out of his mouth with handfuls of cold water.

‘You okay, man?’ he hears someone ask and jumps.

It’s the guy collecting mugs, the full tub tucked under his arm.

‘Sorry,’ he says. ‘Didn’t mean to scare you.’

‘Nah, it’s okay.’ Harry manages a smile. ‘Didn’t get a chance to lock the door.’

‘Can I get you anything?’

‘I’m cool. Just need some fresh air.’

The guy nods, then he’s gone and Harry is alone again.

 

+++

 

‘Here,’ the barista calls out to him as he’s heading out.

Harry turns around to see him behind the counter, holding up a paper cup.

‘Ginger tea,’ he explains. ‘It’ll help.’

Harry takes it, thinking of his mum with a warm smile. ‘Thanks, bro.’

When he reaches into his pocket, the barista shakes his head. ‘Don’t worry. Feel better.’

It does help. So does the fresh air as he sits on the steps waiting for him. He hopes he didn’t miss him while he was puking, but when he checks the time to find it’s 9.30 a.m., he realises that he probably has. He decides to give it another half hour, just in case, then wishes he’d been with it enough to remember his copy of the Metro. So he scrolls through his camera roll instead, grinning to himself as he looks at all the photos of he and Zayn. Most of them are ridiculous, the pair of them sticking their tongues out or pouting provocatively (well, Zayn looks provocative, Harry just looks constipated), but then he scrolls up and sees a photo he doesn’t remember taking and his heart slams into his ribs. It’s the one of he and Zayn in bed, Harry laughing so much his eyes are shut, like the Polaroid he found on his fridge.

‘What the fuck are you doing here, Harry?’

He’s so dazed he doesn’t hear, his mind jumping this way and that, like a wren in a tree, hopping from branch to branch, as he tries to fathom how the photo is on his phone.

‘Harry.’

He hears this time and is so startled, he blushes, as though he’s fallen asleep on the tube and he’s woken him up to tell him it’s the end of the line. He looks up and blinks drowsily.

‘Rory,’ he murmurs, suddenly unsure how he got there.

‘What the fuck are you doing here?’

Harry doesn’t know, looking down at his phone then back up at him.

‘I don’t have time for this,’ Rory huffs. ‘I have class in half an hour.’

‘Okay.’

‘Harry.’ He snaps his fingers in his face. ‘What do you want?’

What does he want?

‘I-’ Harry starts to say then trails off as he makes himself stand up and face him.

‘You _what_?’

He finally finds the words. ‘I think we need to talk.’

 

+++

 

It’s louder inside than he expected, Harry’s stomach tensing as the students brush past him, on their way to class. It’s just like Monday at his school, he thinks, everyone in a hurry, even if the students here move more elegantly than a gaggle of restless 5-years olds.

Rory leads him into an empty classroom that has six long desks with fold down seats, like the ones at the cinema, that face a blank wall. In front of it there’s a small desk with an orange plastic chair and it’s the only colour in there, the room essentially a white box, nothing like his classroom with it’s red lino floor and green paper mache dragon on top of the bookcase.

But then they don’t call them classrooms at university, do they?

‘You okay?’ Harry says clumsily.

Rory is clearly in no mood for small talk and stares at him, his hands on his hips.

‘Okay,’ Harry says to himself, sucking in a breath.

‘Don’t bother,’ Rory says when he starts unbuttoning his coat. ‘You won’t be here long.’

He hopes he won’t be either, but he has to take it off, every bit of him burning.

Even his scalp is sweating.

When he throws his coat on the desk nearest him, Rory smirks spitefully. ‘Nervous?’

Harry doesn’t take the bait, tying his hair back with the hairband around his wrist.

‘Listen,’ he says, stopping to hold his hands up. ‘I come in peace.’

Rory chuckles sourly.

‘I mean it. I can’t do this anymore.’

‘ _You_ can’t do this anymore?’ Rory spits, his eyes wide. ‘ _You_?’

_Don’t wind him up_ , Harry thinks, no longer able to feel his legs.

‘I promise, Rory,’ he tries again, his voice softer this time. ‘I just want to talk.’

‘I have fuck all to say to you, Harry.’

‘I know, but just-’

‘No.’

He says it so firmly that Harry hesitates.

He wasn’t expecting that.

‘Rory, please. Can we-’

He interrupts again. ‘No. I’m fucking done, Harry.’

‘Rory, please,’ he says, his voice not as steady. ‘Can we just draw a line under this?’

‘ _Draw a line under it_?’ He looks at him like he’s mad. ‘You think we can just draw a line under this and carry on like nothing’s happened?’

‘We have to. We can’t go on like this.’

‘Stop saying we. Stop saying we like there’s a we, like there ever was a we.’

_This was a terrible idea_ , Harry realises with a defeated sigh, reaching for his coat.

‘I shouldn’t have come.’

He shouldn’t have. What the fuck did he think was going to happen?

‘No, you shouldn’t have,’ Rory agrees. ‘But I know why you did.’

Harry lifts his eyelashes to meet his gaze but he looks so mad, his stomach clenches.

‘You finally have something to lose now, don’t you?’

Harry’s hand fists in his coat. ‘Don’t.’

‘Don’t what?’

‘He has nothing to do with this,’ he says as sharply as he can.

‘Doesn’t he?’

‘No.’

‘I think you finally have something to lose, Harry.’

He licks his lips and smiles with such satisfaction that Harry almost goes for him. He’s never hit anyone in his life, but he wants to bite the fucking smirk off his face. But as soon as he thinks it, it’s over. Rory’s done it, what he always does, turned him into someone else.

Someone he doesn’t recognise.

‘How does it feel, Harry?’ he pushes. ‘How does it feel to be scared of losing someone?’

‘I’ve already lost him!’

The pain in his voice is enough to make Rory pause. ‘What?’

‘We broke up.’

‘Why?’ When Harry doesn’t answer, he sighs. ‘You broke up with him, didn’t you?’

Harry shrugs.

‘You’re a selfish prick, you know that?’

Harry blinks at him, stunned.

Even he didn’t think he could be this cruel.

‘How is that selfish, Rory? It broke my fucking heart!’

‘Oh shut the fuck up.’

Harry steps back and shakes his head as if to say, _What the fuck?_

‘You love this, Harry!’

‘Love _what_?’

‘This is what you do, Harry.’ He punches each word into the palm of his hand. ‘You love that he’ll spend the rest of his life pining for you, wondering what he did wrong. Don’t you?’

Harry is appalled. ‘Of course not!’

‘You fucking love that he’ll be thinking of you, even when he’s with someone else.’

‘Why would I?’

‘I bet you haven’t even slept with him, have you?’

How the fuck did he know that?

‘Of course not! That way you stay perfect, Harry. Untouchable. The one that got away.’

Harry gapes at him, no idea what he’s talking about.

_No!_ he wants to shout. _No! No! No! I love him!_

‘Poor bastard,’ Rory adds sourly. ‘He’ll never know how fucked up you really are.’

‘Oh shut up,’ he snaps, losing his patience.

‘You’d rather break his heart then let him know the truth about you. You haven’t changed a fucking bit, have you?’

‘I have!’

‘No, you haven’t! You can’t wait to call him and tell him that I was mean to you!’

‘No!’

‘Get him all riled up so he kicks the crap out of me, loses his job too.’

Harry feels sick. ‘He isn’t like that!’

‘Really?’ Rory raises his eyebrows. ‘I thought that was your type? Fixers, like me. I have to be the hero. You know that. You’ve always known what buttons to push with me. That’s why you called me from the pub that night, told me that you were going to kill yourself. You knew I’d come. Then when I got there and Ed started mouthing off about how I was emotionally abusing you, you knew.’ Rory wags his finger at him. ‘You knew it would set me off, Harry.’

‘Shut up!’

He doesn’t.

‘I shouldn’t have hit him, I own that. I know I have a filthy fucking temper. But you do too, don’t you? That’s why you did it. You ruined my life because I didn’t love you back.’

‘Shut up!’

‘Do you know how fucked up that is, Harry?’

‘Stop it!’

‘Zayn loved you back but you still fucked him over.’

‘Shut fuck up!’

Harry takes a step towards him, then steps back, furious with himself.

‘You always do this, Rory!’ he roars, his cheeks burning.

‘Do what?’

‘Turn everything around!’

Rory tilts his head and smiles sweetly. ‘How?’

‘You say stuff! Twist everything ‘round to make me think I’m the one in the wrong!’

‘You are!’ Rory barks back, losing his temper as well.

Harry’s hands ball into fists at his sides. ‘I’m not!’

‘Don’t you fucking dare!’ He kicks the orange plastic chair, the sound of it scraping on the wooden floor as it skitters towards him making Harry jump back. ‘Don’t you dare act like you’re the victim here! I lost everything because of you!’ Rory’s hand shakes as he points at him. ‘I lost my job because of your bullshit! I lost my wife and my son. Remember my son, Harry? I only get to see him on Wednesday evenings and every other weekend now and I can’t even do that because the only job I could find after you fucked me over was in London!’ He kicks the chair again, so hard that Harry has to jump out of the way this time. ‘So don’t you fucking dare!’

Harry holds his breath as he waits for him to calm down. He doesn’t, lunging forward and kicking the chair away so there’s nothing between them. Harry’s instinct is to bolt for the door, but Rory is in the way and oh God, he shouldn’t have come.

He shouldn’t have come.

‘Go on. Run.’ Rory steps aside, reading his mind. ‘Isn’t that what you always do?’

He tries to reason with him. ‘Rory, please.’

‘Harry, stop,’ he hisses. ‘It’s me, remember? You can drop the Bambi routine.’

Harry ignores him.

It’s easier when he ignores him.

‘Don’t forget.’ Rory goes on anyway. ‘I know you, Harry. I know what you’re like.’

Harry can’t help it. ‘No, you don’t!’

He suddenly doesn’t sound as sure and he hates himself because this is what he does.

This is what he does.

‘Everyone else may buy this hapless, charming fop thing you’ve got going on, but I know you, Harry.’ He taps his temple with his finger. ‘I know you better than anyone.’

‘It’s not a routine. This is who I am.’

‘No, it’s who you _want_ to be. There’s a difference.’

‘Stop it.’ Harry shakes his head as if it will knock everything back into place, but it doesn’t, everything the wrong way around, as if Rory’s turned his brain inside out.

‘You’re not that person, Harry. You’ll never be that person.’

‘I am.’

‘You’ll always be a lying, manipulative brat.’

‘No.’ The floor doesn’t feel as steady under his feet. ‘No!’

‘I know the real you.’

‘You don’t!’ Harry has to stop himself stamping his foot. ‘I’m not that person anymore!’

‘The sad thing is, you actually believe that.’

‘It’s true!’ Harry howls, but Rory doesn’t flinch.

‘I’ll admit.’ He shrugs. ‘You had me fooled for a minute. After the watermelon thing.’

Harry glares at him. ‘Don’t.’

He does.

‘You kept calling me.’

‘I didn’t call you! What are you talking about?’ Harry hisses, completely stunned. But as soon as he says it, he feels the flicker of something, like an ember in a dying fire, the tiniest light somewhere deep, deep inside him. ‘I don’t even have your fucking number!’

But he does.

He does.

‘You were so proud of yourself, Harry. Couldn’t wait to let me know what you did.’

‘No.’ He clenches his teeth. ‘You’re lying.’

He’s lying.

‘Come on, Harry. You remember.’

He doesn’t.

‘All those midnight phone calls when you got back from the pub.’

‘Off your face on the drinks everyone bought you. The Watermelon Guy.’

He laughs and it makes Harry so angry, his eyes lose focus. ‘Why are you doing this?’

‘Because you need help, Harry.’

‘ _You_ need help!’ he counters lamely.

‘Probably,’ Rory concedes with a slight shrug. ‘I have to accept my part in this.’

‘Part? _You_ did this to me! _You_!’

‘Did I?’

Did he?

Harry closes his eyes like he used to when he was a kid and he and Ed would hang upside down on the monkey bars at the park. Everything was upside down so he’d close his eyes and open them again, thinking they’d be the right way around again, but they never were.

‘You were like this long before you met me, Harry.’

‘No.’ He shakes his head. ‘It was you. It was you.’

But he isn’t as sure, the tiny light in the dark suddenly a little brighter.

‘But I didn’t help,’ Rory says with a sad sigh. ‘As soon as you started telling everyone we were having an affair, I was so scared that I was going to lose my job that I washed my hands of you. I knew you needed help and I ignored it, hoping it would go away and it didn’t.’

‘No.’ Harry shakes his head again. ‘No. I was fine. You made me better.’

‘I made you worse.’

‘No. You _helped_ me.’ He emphasises each word as if it will make Rory listen.

‘I didn’t and I’m sorry, Harry. I’m so sorry.’

It’s so genuine that he doesn’t know how to react and laughs.

‘I know what you’re doing.’ Harry points his finger at him. ‘I know.’

‘What am I doing?’

‘You know, Rory.’

‘What? I’m apologising, Harry. Something _you’ve_ never done.’

‘Apologise for what?’

‘You-’ He starts to say then stops. ‘I’m sorry,’ he says, closing his eyes and rubbing the bridge of his nose. Then he tries a different tack. ‘You’re right.’ He sighs and looks up, his hands on his hips. ‘We can’t go on like this. We’ve always brought out the worst in each other but I’m supposed to be the grown up here. The professional. I shouldn’t be enabling you like this.’

‘Don’t.’ Harry shakes his head at him. ‘The nice guy routine doesn’t suit you.’

‘I mean it. It’s partly my fault. I’m a psychiatrist and you’re clearly not well. I shouldn’t have got back in touch. But you kept calling and calling and when I saw you in the paper with that stupid watermelon I thought, _Okay_. _Maybe he has changed_. And for the first time since you left Manchester, I missed you.’ Rory blushes, clearly ashamed of himself. ‘So I _finally_ gave in and called you back and you did what you always do: act like nothing had happened.’

‘That’s what _you_ do, Rory!’ Harry loses his temper again, the muscles in his shoulders clenching like fists. ‘You’re doing it now! Making me feel like I’m fucking mad, or something!’

Harry wants to reach out for his coat and shake him, tell him to stop.

Stop turning everything around.

‘I didn’t call you, Rory! I didn’t! You called me!’

‘You haven’t stopped calling me since I was sacked.’

‘Because I felt awful!’

‘So you did call me, then?’

There’s a moment of silence as Harry stares at him. Suddenly, everything is blurry, so blurry that when he looks at his hands, he doesn’t recognise them.

‘I don’t remember.’

‘There’s lot of things you don’t remember, isn’t there, Harry?’

He says it with a compassion Harry didn’t think him capable of, and just like that he’s eighteen again, back in his tiny, untidy office in Manchester, not knowing who he is.

‘Harry, you need help,’ he says finally. ‘I think you have DID.’

Harry’s heart jumps up into his throat.

‘There’s nothing wrong with me,’ he says tightly, looking him in the eye. He doesn’t know who he’s trying to convince, Rory or himself. ‘The only thing wrong with me was you.’

‘Keep telling yourself that, but if you don’t get help, you’re going to fuck up your life.’

‘I’m fine!’ Harry hisses, furious with himself for not telling him to fuck off.

‘No, you’re not. You know you’re not. And now all this shit with the letters-’

‘ _You_ sent those letters!’

‘Harry, stop.’ He sighs and shakes his head. ‘Just stop.’

‘You stop!’

He’s doing it again.

He’s turning everything around.

‘How, Harry? How could I have sent those letters?’

The light becomes a flame.

‘I don’t know.’

‘Think about it: how did I get in your flat? You know what you’re like with checking.’

‘Stop it.’

When he takes another step back, Rory takes one towards him.

‘Remember that story you told me about the magician at Ed’s 6th birthday party? The one who did the trick metal rings?’

Harry nods.

He remembers that.

That happened.

That definitely happened.

‘Remember how you pestered him to show you how he did it?’

‘Yeah.’

‘Remember how disappointed you were when he did?’

‘Yeah. So?’

‘If something seems impossible, it probably is, Harry.’

He shakes his head at him. ‘What has this got to do with you sending me those letters?’

‘You don’t know how I got into your flat, right?’

Harry nods warily.

‘Because I didn’t.’

Harry starts to shake.

‘I couldn’t, could I?’

‘You did,’ Harry says, but it sounds more like a question.

‘I didn’t.’ Rory shakes his head. ‘You know I didn’t.’

So who did?

 

+++

 

Harry doesn’t know how he gets home, doesn’t even remember leaving UCL. The next thing he knows, he’s standing outside Zayn’s door, trying to find his key and he’s so discombobulated he isn’t entirely sure his conversation with Rory even happened.

When he goes to open his satchel, he realises that his phone is in his hand, but before he puts it in his pocket he glances at the screen. It’s open on a Wikipedia article about DID. _Dissociative Identity Disorder, previously known as multiple personality disorder_ , he reads, his fingers curling around the phone, _is a mental disorder on the dissociative spectrum characterized by at least two distinct and relatively enduring identities or dissociated personality states that alternately control a person's behavior, and is accompanied by memory impairment for important information not explained by ordinary forgetfulness_.

His hand shakes as he locks his phone and stuffs it into the pocket of his coat, the words banging together in his head as he rummages through his satchel for his door key. By the time he finds it, every bit of him is shaking, the key scratching at the lock before he finally gets it in. When he does, he turns it back and forth – back and forth, back and forth, back and forth – but nothing happens. He’s about to give up when the door swings open.

‘I knew you’d come back when you thought I was at work, you spineless prick.’

Zayn all but spits it in his face and Harry is so startled that he just looks at him. But before he can recover, Zayn turns and marches back into the flat.

‘You’re a fucking asshole, you know that?’ he tells Harry, stopping and turning to face him when he follows him. ‘You drop that on me and you don’t even call to check that I’m all right? You just fucking leave me?’ He sneers. ‘But then that’s the fucking point, isn’t it?’

When Harry looks down at his keys, something finally clicks. ‘You changed the locks?’

‘Too fucking right,’ Zayn mutters, carrying on towards the bedroom. ‘And I want your shit out of here too.’ He gestures at his suitcase when Harry follows him in. It’s open on the bed, Harry’s clothes spilling out of it. ‘I’ve made a start but now you’re here you can do the rest.’

Before Harry can say anything, he’s gone. He hears the balcony door slide open and when it closes again, he lets go of a breath, relieved to be alone again.

He hasn’t got a clue what to say to him.

So he does as he’s told, stuffing everything into his case. He doesn’t even think about it, just grabs at anything that looks like it might be his and throws it in his case as quickly as he can, as though he’s fleeing in the middle of the night. Or the middle of the day, in this instance. It doesn’t all fit, of course (every time he went back to his flat to check the post he brought more stuff back) but he gets most of it in. Whatever’s left, Zayn will have to throw out.

It might make him feel better.

When he heaves the suitcase off the bed and walks back in the living room, he finally notices what a mess it. The coffee table is dotted with empty beer bottles and Zayn’s rolling tin and papers are out, something he never does because Jas always mistakes his weed for cat nip. (As amusing as a stoned cat is, it can’t be good for her.) He considers cleaning it up, but then he glances at the door to the balcony, opening it before he can tell himself that it’s a bad idea.

Zayn doesn’t look at him. ‘Don’t.’

Something in Harry relaxes when he realises that Zayn doesn’t want to talk and he hates himself because he’s right about that too – he is a spineless prick. But there’s nothing to talk about, is there? There’s nothing Harry can say to make any of this less painful. He doesn’t even know what’s going on in his head for fucks sake, so how can he explain it to Zayn?

So he stands there, watching him smoke, and for the first time since he said it – _I think we should break up_ – Harry wants to cry because he doesn’t know how the fuck this happened. One minute they were laughing and dancing to Sinatra and now Zayn won’t even look at him and he doesn’t know how. It’s like he pulled on a thread and everything unravelled.

‘I can’t watch you go,’ Zayn says finally.

Harry nods, turning and sliding the door open again. When he closes it behind him, he has to stop, his head spinning so much the living room is out of focus. He waits a moment then takes a deep breath and walks over to his suitcase. Jas is next to it, sniffing it suspiciously, and he can’t resist picking her up and kissing her on the head, between her ears. ‘You were right about me,’ he says into her fur, thinking of how wary she was of him when he first moved in.

He puts her down and extends the handle on his suitcase. He’s about to wheel it out when he hears the balcony door open and turns around as Zayn walks into the living room.

‘Wait,’ he says and Harry’s heart stops.

_Oh God_ , he thinks. _Please, don’t do this. If you ask me to stay, I’ll stay and I can’t._

‘That’s it?’ Zayn shrugs. ‘You’re just gonna go?’

‘You said-’

‘What’s gotten into you?’ Zayn stares at him. ‘You’re acting like a fucking robot!’

Harry’s heart starts beating again and it’s so loud he doesn’t know how Zayn can’t hear it.

‘Fucking say something!’ Zayn roars. ‘Don’t you have anything to say?’

Harry goes to take a step towards him but stops himself.

‘I thought this was it!’ Zayn tells him.

_Me too_ , Harry thinks.

‘I thought we were perfect!’

_We were_.

‘Look what you’ve done to us!’ He strides over to the Christmas tree and knocks it over with his hand. The white lights flicker for a second then go out. ‘Look what you’ve done!’

_What have I done?_

 

+++

 

He and Ed are outside Ed’s flat, packing up his car when he sees Zayn’s BMW coming up the road.

‘Hey,’ Ed grins when he pulls up behind them and climbs out.

Zayn frowns and Harry freezes, ready to jump in Ed’s car and drive off. But then Zayn cottons on to the fact that Ed hasn’t got a clue what’s happened, and smiles softly.

‘Sorry about your mum, bro.’

Zayn hugs him and it’s so genuine that watching them turns Harry’s heart inside out.

‘Are you coming to the funeral?’ Ed asks when he steps back then stops and looks at his car. ‘I didn’t know. I need to clear the backseat if you’re coming with us.’

‘I can’t, sorry.’ Zayn squeezes his shoulder with his hand. ‘I have to work.’

‘That’s okay. Thanks for coming now.’

Zayn’s cheeks flush. ‘Actually, I came cos I need to talk to-’

He doesn’t say his name, just nods at Harry.

‘Oh.’ Ed shakes his head. ‘Of course.’

He checks his watch and Harry feels awful. They’re already running late because of him. If they don’t leave now they’re going to hit rush hour on the M6.

‘It’s okay.’ Harry pats Ed on the back. ‘You go. I’ll get the train tomorrow with Fran.’

He frowns. ‘You going to be okay?’

‘Are _you_ going to be okay?’

‘Yeah,’ Ed admits with a shy smile. ‘I didn’t want to say, but I’d rather go on my own. You know what you’re like in cars. You’ll just stress me out.’

Harry laughs and pulls him into a hug. ‘Text me when you get there, okay?’

When he drives off, Harry stuffs his hands into his pockets and nods at the front door.

‘So. Do you wanna come in?’

Zayn doesn’t say anything, just follows, closing the front door behind him.

‘Do you want a cup of tea?’ Harry asks as they walk into the living room.

‘No,’ he says, shrugging off his leather jacket and throwing it on the arm of the sofa. ‘No tea, Harry. No tea or biscuits or bullshit. I haven’t come here for that.’

Harry takes a deep breath. ‘Okay.’

‘You didn’t tell him.’

‘Tell who?’

‘Ed. You didn’t tell him that we broke up.’

Harry can’t look at him.

‘Good.’

Harry looks up when he says it.

‘I’m not letting you do this,’ Zayn tells him.

‘Do what?’

‘Make me think this is all in my head.’

‘I’m not-’

‘No,’ Zayn holds his hand out. ‘You didn’t want to talk so now I am.’

Harry nods.

‘We have something, Harry. I know we do. I fucking feel it.’ He presses his hand to his chest. ‘This isn’t some bullshit fling and I’m not letting you throw it away like it is.’

‘I’m not throwing it away.’

‘You are!’

‘Just trust me, Zayn. This is for the best.’

‘That’s the trouble: I don’t trust you. You’re full of shit.’

He doesn’t know what to say to that and looks down at the rug under their feet.

‘Just fucking tell me, Harry.’

‘Tell you what?’

‘Whatever the fuck has you so scared that you wanna cut and run.’

‘I don’t.’

Zayn isn’t having any of it. ‘This is what I mean: you’re full of shit.’

‘ _How_?’

‘You’re lying.’

Harry doesn’t mean to raise his voice but it’s either yell or cry. ‘I’m not!’

‘You are. Something happened. Something happened to spook you. I thought it was the heart but you were weird the night before. Remember? When you puked.’ Harry remembers. ‘Something spooked you and you need to tell me what it is so we can deal with it.’

‘I can’t.’

‘You have to!’ Zayn takes a step towards him. ‘You fucking owe me that much!’

He does.

‘It’s complicated,’ Harry says, his resolve bowing like a shelf with too many books on it.

‘Complicated how?’

‘I can’t explain it.’

‘You better try!’

Harry shakes his head. ‘I can’t.’

‘Tell me.’

‘I can’t.’

‘Tell me!’

Harry fists his hands in his hair and screams, ‘I fucking can’t!’

He retreats to the other side of the living room, trying to catch his breath, because if he doesn’t, he’s going to pass out. It feels like he’s back on that tube platform, the toes of his boots on the yellow line, Zayn pushing and pushing and pushing.

Zayn walks over to where he’s standing. ‘Harry.’

‘No!’

‘Just tell me.’

‘I fucking can’t!’

‘Why?’

He can hear Rory’s voice in his head, _Just say it, Harry._

_Say it._

_Say it._

_Say it._

‘Because!’ He spins around to face him, his hands still fisted in his hair. He wants to pull out every strand. ‘You said that I had to be my own hero but what if I’m the villain?’

‘The villain?’

Zayn takes a step back and it hurts so much Harry can barely breathe.

‘You wanted to know and now you know.’

‘What do you mean ‘the villain’?’

Something in him finally breaks and it all floods out of him in a rush.

‘I made it all up, okay?’

Harry hears himself say the words but he doesn’t know where they came from.

Doesn’t know what he’s saying.

Zayn doesn’t either. ‘Made what up?’

Harry turns his back to him, crossing his arms and looking out the living room window at a woman wheeling a buggy towards the Seven Sisters Road.

‘Harry,’ he says gently.

Harry can feel him standing behind him, the heat of him.

‘I don’t know.’

‘What do you mean _you don’t know_?’

‘I mean _I don’t know_ ,’ Harry says, raising his voice again.

‘Fucking look at me.’

He doesn’t, pacing over to the sofa and sitting down.

Zayn follows, sitting on the coffee table opposite him. ‘What’s going on?’

‘I don’t know.’

‘Stop saying that!’ Zayn snaps then catches himself. ‘I’m sorry,’ he says, running his hand through his hair with a sigh. ‘I’m sorry.’

Harry is too.

They sit in silence for a moment, not looking at one another, until Zayn finally says, ‘Just talk to me.’

He doesn’t know what to say, doesn’t know what’s happening. Everything was one way and then he saw Rory and now it’s the other and he doesn’t know what’s happening.

‘Just breathe,’ Zayn says when he begins to wheeze, the panic punching at his chest.

Harry tries, hoping it will clear the fog in his head because he can’t think straight.

‘Breathe, babe.’

_Babe_.

Hearing him say it feels so nice.

Harry wants to reach for him and sob into his chest, but he can’t.

‘I’ve fucked everything up,’ he says instead, sweeping his hair back with his fingers.

‘How?’

‘It’s what I do.’ He shrugs. ‘There’s something wrong with me, in my head.’

Zayn doesn’t say anything, just waits for him to catch his breath.

‘I’m fucked,’ he says when he does. ‘I’m fucking fucked.’

‘Why do you think that, Harry?’

‘Because it’s true. I’ve been this way since I was a kid.’

‘Since you had that freak out in the car when you were five?’

He remembered.

Harry’s so touched he wants to reach for his hand and kiss it.

‘Before that.’ The words come from nowhere as Harry feels that thing in him stir again, that flicker of light. ‘It started when I was four,’ he adds, giving into it, letting the words flow for once without swallowing them back. ‘It probably started before that, I just don’t remember.’

‘What happened when you were four?’

_What happened when I was four?_

‘I started school.’ Harry sniffs, tucking his hair behind his ears.

_Why then?_

_Why then?_

‘Mum decided to go back to work.’

He remembers now, how she laughed when she told him. _I’ll be bored at home all day by myself_. Remembers how it didn’t even register as he ate his fish finger sandwich.

‘I didn’t care but everything changed after that,’ he admits, stopping to take a breath, the words coming at him at once. He can’t keep up. Can’t keep them in the right order. ‘She was always in a rush in the morning and while she finished in time to get me and Gem from school, when we got home the house was cold and she didn’t have time to listen about my day because she was trying to put the dinner on before my dad got home.’

‘My mum’s the same.’ Zayn says kindly. ‘She never sits still.’

‘I didn’t like it, though.’ Harry can’t look at him. ‘It was like I was jealous.’

‘Of her job?’

Harry shrugs. ‘What can I say? I was four and a fucking brat.’

‘Why were you jealous?’

‘Because she wasn’t there anymore. I mean, she was, but she wasn’t.’

‘And you missed her?’

‘Because it felt like she was leaving too.’

‘I thought you said your dad left when you were seven?’

‘He left long before that. I don’t think he was ever really there.’

‘So you knew your dad wasn’t happy and you thought your mum wasn’t either?’

‘I thought she wanted a new life too.’

It’s funny, Harry’s never dared say that out loud, never dared put into words why it unsettled him so much, but in the end, it was actually kind of easy because that’s why, isn’t it?

He knows now that’s why.

The relief makes him feel lightheaded.

‘Then, that Christmas, Mum got me and Gemma bikes. Gem said she bought them with the money she’d earned and I felt awful,’ Harry goes on, scared to stop in case the memory recedes back into whatever corner in his head he hid it in. ‘I couldn’t wait to learn how to ride mine, but Mum said the pavement was too icy so I had to wait for Dad. You know what he’s like.’ Zayn nods. ‘It was always tomorrow, tomorrow, tomorrow. Then it was the day before we were going back to school and I hadn’t even been on my bike. So I waited until Mum got in the bath one morning and took it out.’ Zayn doesn’t look surprised. ‘But she was right, the pavement was too icy. I only went a few feet before I fell off it and scuffed my leg really badly.’

Zayn chuckles. ‘Did she say I told you so?’

‘Of course!’ Harry manages a smile. ‘It was weird, though, it hurt _so fucking bad_ , but Mum was beside herself. She cooked my favourite dinner and sat with me under a blanket on the sofa watching cartoons for the first time in months and I didn’t even notice the pain.’

‘It was like it used to be, before she went to work.’

Harry nods. ‘So when I had to go to school the next morning and she had to go back to work, I threw a strop. She knew I was playing up so I told her it was my leg. I mean it hurt but not that bad. Still, she believed me. She freaked out and took me to A&E. I felt so special.’

‘I get that,’ Zayn concedes, tilting his head from side to side. ‘Whenever I get sick, Mum dotes on me. Even now. She makes chicken curry and strokes my hair. I feel like a prince.’

Harry looks at his hands. ‘But I kept doing it.’

‘What? Pretending that you were sick?’

‘But she cottoned on after a while.’

‘’Course she did,’ Zayn says and Harry knows that he’s thinking about his mum again.

‘So I stopped.’ The memory is so in focus, he knows it’s real. ‘But then, just after my 5th birthday, someone at her office went on maternity leave so Mum had to start working full time.’

Zayn whistles, as if he knows.

‘I was fucking furious.’ Harry goes on and it’s like unrolling a carpet bit by bit. ‘It meant that she wouldn’t be home until six-thirty so we had to stay at our neighbour’s house, who I hated. Not them but their daughters. Gemma always showed off in front of them.’

‘Made fun of you, you mean?’

‘Yeah!’ Harry pouts. ‘So I threw an almighty strop and she agreed to let me stay at Ed’s. But she still insisted we all walk from school together, which was a pain in the arse because they finished later than me and Ed, so I-’ he stops and when it goes quiet, he hears Rory’s voice again. _Say it. Say it. Say it_. ‘So I told Mum that we didn’t need to walk home with them, we could go with the man outside school, the one with the sweets.’

There’s a second of silence as Zayn’s face falls.

Harry’s so ashamed he can’t look at him.

‘That was the first proper lie that I told.’

‘Why?’ Zayn asks and all Harry can do is shrug.

‘I don’t know.’

‘Was there a man outside your school?’

Harry shakes his head.

‘So where did it come from?’

‘I don’t know. I just made it up.’

‘That’s quite an imagination.’ Zayn almost sounds impressed. ‘So what happened?’

‘Mum freaked out. She told the school who called the police. It was a fucking mess.’

‘Did you ever tell them the truth?’

‘No, that’s the thing.’ He stops to think of the right words because this is the hard part. This is the part Zayn won’t understand. ‘After a while, after I’d told the story a few times, I started to believe it. I was convinced there really was a man outside school.’

Zayn frowns. ‘So you forgot that you made it up?’

‘Not _forgot_.’ Harry doesn’t know how to explain it. ‘I didn’t know I made it up.’

Zayn still looks confused and he can’t blame him.

‘I thought he was real. I got so caught up in it that I told the police every detail about him, from the colour of his coat to the scar on his cheek.’

‘But you were lying?’

‘Yeah, but I didn’t know that, I swear.’ Harry shakes his head. ‘Not until I had the freak out in Mum’s car. I remembered and thought God was going to punish me for lying.’

‘So you stopped?’

‘I couldn’t.’ Harry starts playing with his bottom lip. ‘I kept doing it.’

‘Why?’

‘I don’t know. I couldn’t stop,’ he says defensively, tugging on his lip so hard it hurts. ‘I wasn’t hurting anyone, though. They were just stories.’

‘But they were more than that.’ Zayn tugs Harry’s hand away from his mouth. ‘You worried your mum sick, not to mention all the time you wasted for the school and the police.’

Harry can’t look at him, but Zayn pushes him anyway.

‘Do you think that’s what triggered your OCD?’

Harry looks up again, bewildered by how spot on he is.

He’s always underestimated Zayn.

‘I think so. It was a way of trying to control myself so I wouldn’t do it again.’

Sometimes Harry wonders if he’s not checking the front door to make sure no one gets in, but so he doesn’t get out.

‘Did you tell anyone?’ Zayn asks gently.

‘Of course not!’ Harry scoffs. ‘I was embarrassed. So I ignored it. I thought it was just a thing kids did, tell stories. I thought I’d grow out of it.’

‘But you didn’t?’

‘I thought coming out would help, not keeping a secret that big.’

‘Did it?’

‘A bit. I never told a lie as big as the one about the man outside school again.’

Zayn goes quiet for a moment, then asks, ‘What happened after that?’

‘I went to uni.’

‘And met Rory?’

Harry nods.

‘Did you tell him about the lying?’

Harry nods again. ‘He called me on it straight away, said I was doing it for attention, that I wasn’t mad at Mum for getting a job, I was mad at Dad for leaving and I was scared that she would too.’

‘What did he say was wrong? It was more than just telling lies, right?’

‘He thought I was a pathological liar.’ Harry’s heart tenses of the memory, Rory telling him that it was another sort of compulsion, like his OCD. ‘I was actually kind of relieved.’

‘That you knew what was wrong?’

Harry nods.

‘So you stopped?’

‘Stopped everything, even my meds. I thought I was better.’

Zayn face softens. ‘But you weren’t?’

‘Of course not. I just developed a new compulsion.’

‘What?’

Harry starts playing with his bottom lip again. ‘Rory.’

‘You fell in love with him.’

Harry shrugs. ‘I thought he’d cured me.’

‘What happened?’

‘He didn’t feel the same way.’

‘How did that make you feel?’

‘I was devastated. I thought he was the one, you know?’ When Zayn looks away, Harry’s chin shivers. ‘Every film I’d watched told me that when you meet the one, that’s it. You live happily ever after. But that didn’t happen and it fucked me up.’

Zayn nods, looking down and picking one of Jas’ hairs off his jeans.

‘So bad I flunked my first year,’ Harry says desperately, hoping he understands.

Understands that it was more than an adolescent crush.

If he does, he doesn’t show it. ‘Did they make you retake?’

‘My course tutor wanted to but I told her that I was distracted.’

‘By Rory?’

‘I told her that we were having an affair.’ Harry fists his hand in his hair and pulls. ‘Rory denied it, but it was my word against his. No one could prove it either way but he couldn’t be my counsellor after that. That just made me worse.’ He lifts his chin to look at Zayn as he looks away. ‘It was like with the man outside my school,’ he tries to explain, but he can’t catch his breath so the words come out all at once. ‘I’d told the story so many times that I’d convinced myself it was true, that we were in love and Rory was denying it to keep his job.’

‘You told me-’ Zayn stops and presses his lips together. ‘Was any of it true?’

‘We never even kissed.’

‘Harry.’ Zayn covers his eyes with his hand.

‘I know.’ He’s so ashamed that he wants to cover his too.

Zayn takes his hand away. ‘So none of it was true?’

Harry shakes his head.

‘ _None_ of it?’

He shakes his head again.

‘And you told everyone what you told me?’

Harry nods.

‘Even Ed?’

He nods again.

‘’The fuck, Harry?’ he hisses. ‘You didn’t just lie to me, you lied to Naz.’ He stands up and stares at him. ‘Do you know many people get in touch with Imaan every day? People with real fucking problems. People he didn’t help because he was trying to help you.’

‘I’m sorry,’ he says and he sounds pathetic, like a snively little kid.

‘Sorry?’ Zayn starts to say something, then stops himself, striding over to the window.

‘What do you want me to say?’ Harry stands up too. ‘I’m an asshole! I ruined Rory’s life because I thought we were in love!’

Zayn turns to face him. ‘How could you think you were in love? _Nothing happened_!’

‘I know!’ Harry wails, his hands balled into fists. ‘But I didn’t know!’

‘What are you talking about?’

What is he talking about?

Harry closes his eyes and puts his hands on his head as if it will stop it spinning.

‘I lied, but I didn’t know I lied,’ he says and he knows that it sounds like bullshit but he doesn’t know how else to say it.

Zayn doesn’t buy it though. ‘How could you not know that you lied?’

‘Don’t you get it? There’s something wrong with me!’ Harry jabs his temple with his finger. ‘Something wrong in my fucking head!’

Suddenly it’s so quiet that he can hear the clock ticking in the hall as they look across the living room at each other.

Then Zayn frowns. ‘Are you saying you have DID?’

The shock of it almost knocks Harry back onto the sofa.

‘What do you know about DID?’

‘A case I worked on last year. Serial rapist,’ Zayn says, the crease between his eyebrows getting deeper. ‘He swore down he didn’t do it but we had his DNA. Turns out he had these blackouts and when he came ‘round he couldn’t remember a thing. He lost days sometimes.’

Harry’s heart starts beating so hard he can feel it in his fingers.

‘Do you have blackouts?’

‘I had one today,’ Harry admits. ‘I couldn’t remember getting to your flat.’

‘How long have you been having them?’

‘I don’t know.’ He doesn’t. ‘At uni Ed was always having to come get me because I’d woken up in a shitty Travelodge on the M6 and had no idea how I got there.’ Harry glances over at the framed photo of them at Ed’s 21st on the mantelpiece. ‘I thought it was the drink.’

It’s such a relief to say it out loud, to let go of it at last.

Nothing has made sense for so, so long and now it does.

‘Fucking hell, Harry,’ Zayn says softly.

‘I know.’

Zayn thinks about it, then frowns again. ‘What about the letters?’

Harry sits back on the sofa with a sigh. ‘I think I sent them to myself.’

‘ _What_?’

‘I must have.’

‘You don’t remember?’

When Harry shakes his head, Zayn comes to sit on the coffee table again.

‘How, though? What about the Polaroid we found on your fridge?’

Harry reaches into his pocket for his phone. ‘I found this.’

He hands it to Zayn and he squints at the screen for a minute. Then he realises what he’s looking at. ‘Wait. You took a photo of us on your phone then took a Polaroid of the photo?’

‘I guess.’

‘That’s-’ Zayn starts to say then shakes his head.

‘Fucked up?’

‘I was going to say smart.’ Zayn hands him back his phone. ‘But fucked up works too.’

‘I swear to God I don’t remember doing it. I don’t remember any of it.’

They sit in silence for a while, Harry staring at the photo until his screen goes black.

‘Why, Harry?’ Zayn says eventually.

He almost laughs. If he knew that.

‘I think the attention I got after the watermelon thing triggered something.’

‘And you didn’t want it to stop?’

Harry nods.

‘Was the rest of it true?’

‘The rest of it?’

‘Us?’

Harry didn’t think it was possible for such a small word to feel so big.

‘Of course it is.’ He wants to reach for his hand but stops himself. ‘That’s the one thing that is true. I thought Rory was the one but it’s you. It’s fucking _you_ and I’ve fucked it all up.’

He holds his breath as he waits for Zayn to tell him that he hasn’t. If this was a film he would. If this was a film, he’d hold him say that it’s okay, that everything is going to be okay.

But it isn’t a film so he doesn’t.

All he says is, ‘How did this happen? Weren’t we just dancing to Sinatra?’

‘I don’t know,’ Harry says.

And he really doesn’t.

 

+++

 

They don’t make any promises. Zayn doesn’t promise to wait until he’s sorted himself out and Harry doesn’t promise to keep in touch while he does. The only promise Harry makes is that he’s going to go home tomorrow, tell his family the truth, and get the help he needs.

When Zayn leaves, they hesitate, not sure whether to kiss or hug, so they don’t do anything, Zayn telling him to take care as he opens the front door. Harry gets it now, why he couldn’t watch him leave earlier, and retreats to the bathroom. He doesn’t need to, but he locks the door and leans against, his cheek pressed to the wood while he waits for the click of the door. When he hears it, he almost gives into it, almost sinks to the floor and cries into the bathroom rug. But he can’t, because if he breaks now, he won’t go home and if he doesn’t go home he won’t get help and if he doesn’t get help then all of this was for nothing.

So he takes a deep breath and unlocks the door, then takes another before he opens it. He jumps back when he sees Zayn standing there. He tries to speak, but can’t. Zayn doesn’t either, reaching for him and pulling Harry into a kiss that makes him sigh into his mouth. They melt into it, Zayn holding his face and kissing him with a desperation that brings tears to Harry’s eyes. He clutches Zayn’s back, pulling him closer so there’s no space between them at all, the buckle of Zayn’s belt digging into his stomach as they stumble into the hall and fall against the wall. Zayn peels his mouth away from his, kissing his jaw, his throat, his neck then his mouth again, as though he can’t bear to be away from it for a few moments.

Harry takes him by the shirt and leads him to his old room, unbuttoning it as they go. He steps on his toe, but Zayn doesn’t laugh, doesn’t stop kissing him and bite his neck, he just keeps kissing him, his hands on Harry’s face and hair, all at once. They only break the kiss when he tugs up Harry’s jumper, their mouths parting for long enough to pull it over his head before they collide again. Zayn’s thumbs go straight to Harry’s nipples, stroking them until Harry sighs into his mouth again. Their mouths slip as their feet get tangled in Harry’s discarded jumper, but regain their balance in time to tumble through the bedroom door. Then they’re kissing again, Harry’s hands pushing Zayn’s shirt over his shoulders with such impatience, he hears a rip. Their mouths miss as Zayn tries to tug it off his wrists, Harry taking advantage of it to bite Zayn’s shoulder. He hisses then grabs a handful of Harry’s hair, yanking his head back. He bites Harry’s bottom lip, giving it a tug before flicking his tongue back into his mouth. Then he’s slipping his hand into Harry’s jeans. Harry groans and presses himself into him, which is all the approval Zayn needs to pull his hand out and unbutton them.

As soon as he does, he breaks their kiss and turns Harry around so he has his back to him and is facing the chest of drawers. He doesn’t say anything, Harry letting his head tip back on to Zayn’s shoulder so they can kiss while he pulls his jeans down. Harry’s so hard, it’s a struggle, so he tries to help, and when he succeeds, Zayn doesn’t even bother to pull them all the way off, just peels them down his thighs and leaves them bunched around his knees, before grabbing Harry’s hips and pulling them towards him. Harry puts his hands out, reaching for the chest of drawers to steady himself then watching over his shoulder as Zayn sinks to his knees.

Harry cries out when he feels Zayn’s tongue. The empty chest of drawers rattles as Harry holds on, his head dipping as though he can no longer support the weight of it. Zayn uses his fingers too, working Harry open then scissoring them so he can use the tip of his tongue. Harry pushes his hips towards him with a groan and Zayn takes the hint, fucking him with his tongue until Harry’s thighs are quivering. He doesn’t hold back. There’s no teasing, no first time awkwardness. He just eats Harry out like he knows it’s his only chance.

Like he already knows this is the only time he will.

Harry wants to say his name, but doesn’t dare, scared that if he says anything he’ll ruin it. He’s already said too much. So he bites the skin on the back of his hand to stop himself making a sound, the pain fucking _exquisite_ as he uses his other to fist himself. Zayn doesn’t say anything either, not even when he stands up and fucks into Harry with a single stroke. The chest of drawers bang against the wall when he does, the shock of it bringing tears to Harry’s eyes. Not because it hurts but because he knows this isn’t what Zayn wanted. Zayn wanted candles and Marvin Gaye, Harry on his back on his bed, thighs hooked on his hips. He wanted kissing and giggling and more kissing, wanted to take his time, make Harry feel it.

Harry can feel it, but in a very different way. He can feel Zayn’s hands shaking as he grabs his shoulders, can feel how desperate he is – how frantic – fucking him with quick deep strokes that make Harry’s knees knock into the chest of drawers. And he can hear Zayn panting, hear how hard he’s trying not to say his name. Harry gets it, gets why neither of them are saying anything because there’s nothing else to say, is there? This is it and it doesn’t matter what either of them say, they can’t fix it. Sometimes things break and they stay broken and it doesn’t matter how hard you try or how much you love, it’s not enough. So there are no more words. This is all that’s left, the two of them clinging to one another one, kissing their _I love you_ s and their _I’m sorry_ s into each others skin while they hold on hard enough to leave bruises.

Harry can’t keep it in, though.

‘I love you,’ he says with a sob when he unravels inside him.

But Zayn doesn’t say it back.


	9. Don't Say Phlegm

_SEVEN YEARS LATER_

 

 

 

 

When Harry gets out of the cab the photographers gathered by the entrance to the ballroom surge forward, their cameras raised. But when they realise that he isn’t anyone, they lower them again with a collective sigh and resume their conversations about lens’ or shutter speed or whatever it is the paparazzi talk about when they’re not trying to catch drunk pop stars coming out the back door of nightclubs. Harry’s nervous enough as it is so it’s exactly the confidence boost he needs, his knees a little weaker as he walks past them up the red carpet.

He doesn’t know what he expected, but inside it just looks like a regular hotel. A very fancy hotel, but a hotel nonetheless. There’s a sign with the Pride of Britain Awards logo on it, pointing towards the bar, but as he approaches, he hears someone laughing and bottles it, retreating to the men’s toilets. Mercifully, it’s empty so he unbuttons his suit jacket and shrugs it off, checking his shirt for pit stains. He’s okay. So he puts it back on again, grateful that he had the sense not to wear a tie because he’s already close to hyperventilating and he hasn’t even seen Zayn yet. Just the thought of it makes his hands shake as he fusses over his hair. Getting it cut today seemed like a good idea, but it’s a mess. Either his hairdresser didn’t put enough product in it or he’s so nervous that he’s sweated it all out, but it’s doing a weird sticky up thing that makes him look about twelve, which isn’t helping his nerves one little bit. He tries wetting, which makes it worse, so he decides to leave it alone, suddenly missing the days when he could tie it into a bun and forget about it.

_What now?_ he thinks. Leaving the men’s toilet would be a start. _Not yet, though_.

As if on cue, his phone rings and he curses under his breath when he sees that it’s Ed.

‘Get out of the toilet,’ he tells him before Harry can say anything.

How did he know?

He’s a fucking witch.

Harry ignores him. ‘How’s Emma?’

‘Still pregnant.’

‘The walk didn’t help?’

‘Nope.’ Ed sounds exhausted.

‘He’ll come out when he’s ready.’

‘Are we talking about you or my unborn child?’

‘Have you tried curry? Spicy food is supposed to help bring on labour.’

‘Is there anything you didn’t learn from Friends?’

Harry smirks. ‘How’s Molly? She must be well confused.’

‘She just tottered over to Emma, grabbed her belly and yelled, “Wake up!”’

‘That’s my girl.’

‘She’s looking forward to seeing her Uncle Haz on the telly.’

‘Like I’ll win,’ he scoffs, fiddling with his hair some more.

‘She’ll be inconsolable if she doesn’t see you so you better rush the stage, or something. I already have a heavily pregnant wife to deal with. I can’t deal with a stroppy 3-year old as well.’

‘I’ll see what I can do.’

‘You’ll need to leave the men’s toilets, though.’

‘Minor detail.’

Ed must hear the tap running through the phone because he asks him what he’s doing.

‘My hair hates me,’ he snaps. ‘Why did it cut it?’

‘Because you wanted to look hot for Zayn.’

‘Shut up.’

‘Stop hiding!’ Ed hisses, losing his patience with him.

‘I’m going now.’

‘No, you’re not.’

Harry presses his hand to his forehead. ‘What if he’s out there, though?’

‘I thought that was the point?’

‘I know, but-’ He trails off as he unbuttons his suit jacket and sniffs his armpit.

‘Harry,’ Ed says gently. ‘I know you’ve been trying to leave him be but you’ve both been nominated for the same award. That’s like fate, or something.’

Harry looks in the mirror over the sink and nods.

‘Plus, it’s great publicity for YoungMinds.’

He nods again.

‘Are you nodding?’

‘Yes.’

‘Now get out there and do that awkward charming thing you do so well.’

‘Okay.’

‘I’m not hanging up until you go out there.’

‘Fine.’ He gives in with a huff. ‘But if I make an arse of myself.’

‘You will, but that’s what makes you so endearing.’

Harry sneers at the phone then opens the door, his heart stopping as he thinks he sees someone who might be Zayn. He promptly closes it again.

‘Open the door, Haz,’ Ed tells him with a weary sigh.

‘Just give me a minute.’

‘Do it or I’m calling Gemma.’

Harry opens the door, taking a deep breath before he steps back out into the foyer.

‘Fine,’ he tells Ed. ‘I’m outside.’

‘Now walk.’

Harry huffs petulantly but does as he’s told, tagging along behind a group of women in long dresses who are heading towards the bar, their heels clicking on the cream marble floor. As soon as he steps inside, the bar’s so busy that he turns around again.

‘Get back in there,’ Ed barks.

‘I can’t,’ Harry says through his teeth. ‘There’s people in there.’

‘You like people.’

‘I don’t. They’re the worst. Isn’t that what Jean-Paul Sartre said?’

‘Jean-Paul _who_?’ Ed groans, but before Harry can explain, he says, ‘No one cares, Haz. Just get in there. You’ve been nominated for an award, you should be mingling.’

‘I hate mingling.’

‘Have you always been this whiney?’

‘Have you always been this bossy?’

The answer to both is yes.

Someone says, ‘excuse me’ and Harry apologises, realising that he’s blocking the door to the bar. When he steps aside he summons the courage to peer inside again. It doesn’t look so bad, actually, kind of like the pub on a Saturday night, except everyone is dressed in tuxedoes and ball gowns and drinking glasses of champagne not bottles of _Peroni_. He does a quick scan of the room but he can’t see Zayn so he rolls his neck until it clicks and nods.

‘I’m going in.’

When Ed cheers, Harry hears Molly cheer through the phone too. She probably has no idea why Ed’s cheering, she just likes sticking her arms in the air, but it’s oddly comforting.

‘I’m in,’ Harry says as soon as he steps into the bar. It’s a bit melodramatic, like a heist movie, or something, but then Harry’s always been a bit melodramatic.

‘Good. Reward yourself with a drink.’

‘I’m walking,’ he says as he starts weaving through the crowd towards the bar. As annoying as Ed is, he’s kind of grateful, actually, talking on his phone giving him something to do with his hand that isn’t pulling his hair out. ‘I’m walking.’

‘Don’t trip.’

‘Why did you say that?’ Harry growls. ‘Now I’m going to trip.’

It’s impossible to hear Ed roll his eyes through the phone but Harry’s sure he does.

‘I’m at the bar.’ He slaps it with a grin likes he’s planting a flag at the North Pole.

‘Good. Give the phone to whoever’s behind the bar.’

‘What?’

‘Just do it.’

‘You know you’ve gotten worse since you became a dad?’

‘Phone. Barman. Now.’

Harry’s hoping it’s a woman so he can correct him, but it’s a dude.

‘My friend wants to talk to you,’ he says, extending his arm.

The guy looks at Harry’s phone then at Harry and frowns. ‘Excuse me?’

‘I’m sorry,’ he apologises in advance as the guy reaches across the glossy bar.

‘Hello?’ Whatever Ed says makes his frown deepen. ‘Yeah. He is. The Dorchester.’ He pauses. ‘The Pride of Britain Awards.’ He nods. ‘Okay.’

He hands Harry back his phone.

‘Happy?’ he asks Ed when the guy turns to grab a bottle off the shelf behind him.

‘Ecstatic. Have you seen him?’

‘I haven’t looked.’

The barman puts a Jack and Coke down in front of him and he has to fight the urge to down it one.

‘It’s gonna be all right,’ Ed tells him. ‘Fate, remember?’

‘Fate,’ Harry repeats, unsure if he still believes in it.

 

+++

 

As Harry’s walking into the ballroom his legs almost give way as he realises that he and Zayn might be on the same table if they’ve been nominated for the same award. Luckily, they’re not, Harry’s on the ‘mental health’ table, which is good because he knows everyone on it. That helps. As does the wine. He’s on his second glass when Zayn finally walks in and seeing him again after all this time knocks the air right out of him. He looks the same. Better, actually. He’s always been graceful but he’s lost all of that twentysomething awkwardness, his chin up as he moves around the tables until he finds his. He’s cut his hair as well, a buzz cut that would look hideous on Harry. If he cut his hair that short he’d look like that troll doll Ed used to carry around everywhere when they were kids, the one with the green hair that Harry cut off after they had a fight. It draws more attention to Zayn’s face so all he can see is the sharp sweep of his cheekbones and his soft brown eyes framed by those eyelashes he once tugged to check they were real. And he’s filled out, his skinny arms and legs gone and his shoulders a little broader. Or maybe it’s the black suit he’s wearing that fits him so well it’s as if he’s been poured into it.

_See me_ , Harry thinks. _See me. See me. See me_. But then Zayn turns to reach for the hand of the woman walking behind him and Harry’s stomach lurches so suddenly he almost pukes across the table. But when she takes his hand, she looks over her shoulder and he sees that it’s his mother and Harry’s heart suddenly feels too big for his chest. She looks so happy, smiling so much that he can see the white of her teeth from the other side of the ballroom.

Why would Zayn see him when his mother’s smiling like that?

Their table is nearer the stage and when they sit down Harry realises that they have their backs to him and he relaxes. The worst is over now, he thinks as he sips his wine. By the time the ceremony gets going, he’s on his third glass and is buzzed enough that his nerves are all but gone. He’s chatting away like he’s actually enjoying himself. And he is, so distracted that he almost misses them announcing his category. He only shuts up because everyone on the table hushes him as a cameraman appears from nowhere. Harry smiles sweetly when Davina McCall says his name, nodding and blushing a little when everyone applauds. When his face appears on the screen, Zayn turns his head to look for him and Harry’s heart stops dead in the chest. Mercifully, he doesn’t have a chance to find him before the camera is on him, Zayn touching his eyebrow with his finger and smiling when everyone claps for him too.

Harry’s so flustered by their almost encounter that he doesn’t realise that Davina’s said his name until everyone at his table erupts, the camera suddenly on him again. ‘Did I win?’ he asks as the woman sitting next to him grabs him and kisses his cheek. He has no idea what to do, standing up unsteadily as one of the runners gestures at him to walk towards the stage. He does, his heart in his throat as the spotlights pick him out. He can hear people congratulating him as he moves between the tables towards the stage, can feel them squeezing his arm and patting his back, but it doesn’t feel real. Not until he’s walking up the steps and there’s Davina, who kisses his cheek and thrusts a trophy into his hand. She leads him to the podium and as Harry looks out at the round tables dotted around the ballroom, he’s so stunned he laughs.

‘Is this a dream?’ he asks looking down at himself. ‘Am I naked?’

There’s a titter of laughter and it’s strangely encouraging. The lights at the front of the stage are so bright and there’s a cameraman right in front of him so he can’t see anyone’s face, which also helps. But he’s vaguely aware of where Zayn’s sitting and catches himself turning his body in that direction as his fingers curl around the trophy.

‘I know _everyone_ says this.’ He rolls his eyes. ‘But I honestly didn’t think I had a chance of winning so I didn’t write a speech. I’m going to have to wing it.’ His eyes widen this time. ‘This should be interesting. I’ll try not to mention being naked again in a roomful of children.’

There’s another polite titter of laughter.

‘This is-’ He stops to clasp his chest. ‘ _Such_ an honour. I’ve never thought of myself as particularly brave. Quite the opposite, in fact. I spent so long being scared, scared of whatever was in my head that made rooms feel too small and the world feel too big that I couldn’t move sometimes.’ He shrugs sadly. ‘I was twenty-three when I finally admitted that there was something wrong and got help. That probably sounds pretty young, but twenty-three years is a long time to spend thinking that you’re the reason why everyone in your life is miserable.’

He looks down at the award in his hand. ‘But I work with kids, 14-year olds and 15-year olds, who have stood up and said, _My brain doesn’t work like everyone else’s_. I mean, I’m _so touched_ that you think I deserve this award, but they’re the brave ones, not me. They’re the ones who are out there, living and loving and laughing while I can’t even get my hair to do as it’s told.’ The laughter is real this time as he holds up the award. ‘So this is for Cassie and Milo and Tau and Reebs and all the kids I meet everyday who make me want to be a better person.’

There’s a huge cheer, so huge that it makes Harry’s cheek flush as he turns to Davina, who kisses him again and leads him off the stage. But as he’s about to walk down the steps, he gasps and runs back to the podium. ‘Oh and this is also for my goddaughter Molly!’ he says, stopping to blow her a kiss. ‘Look, Molls! Uncle Haz is on the telly!’

 

+++

 

They take the trophy off him as soon as he gets off stage, to get his name engraved on it, apparently, which is slightly disappointing, but probably for the best because he’d probably leave it in the back of the cab. His Mum’s disappointed too, desperate for a photo of him with it so he poses for a selfie with a cardboard cut out of it instead, which will have to do for now. He does one for Molly too, but as he opens his mouth and points at it, he’s aware of someone watching him. He lowers his arm to find it’s Zayn and almost drops his phone.

‘Hey,’ he says with a polite nod.

‘Hey.’ Harry gulps, actually cartoon gulps. ‘I was going to-’

Zayn interrupts him with a chuckle. ‘No, you weren’t.’

‘You were with your mum,’ he says defensively, but Zayn just smiles.

‘Congrats on the award.’

‘Thanks. You were robbed, by the way.’

Zayn nods solemnly. ‘Totally.’

‘But hey, you have an OBE so.’

‘Thanks for not adding _first gay Muslim_.’ Harry pulls a face, but Zayn just shrugs. ‘One day I’ll win something because of something I’ve done not something I am.’ Harry doesn’t know what to say to that, but it doesn’t matter as he says, ‘What did you do to piss your hair off?’

‘Hey,’ Harry pouts, trying to flatten it with my hand.

Zayn laughs and it’s so warm it makes Harry smile. Then there’s a moment of silence where they just stand there, not really looking at each other. _Say something_ , a voice in Harry’s head screams. _Fucking say something_. But then Zayn takes a step back and the moment’s gone.

‘I’d better.’ He thumbs over his shoulder and Harry nods.

‘Yeah, me too.’

‘Take care, okay?’

‘You too.’

That’s it.

Harry has spent the last seven years agonising over this moment, over what he’d say, what Zayn would say, if he’d even acknowledge him, or ignore Harry like a foolish one night stand he’d rather forget. Then he’s gone and Harry turns and goes in the opposite direction, heading out of the ballroom and back into the lobby. As soon as he gets out onto the pavement, he lets go of a breath and looks up at the big, black sky. It makes him feel so small, as tiny as one of the stars, and he immediately feels better, because it’s finally over. He’s seen Zayn and he doesn’t have to worry anymore, worry that he broke him as well. The relief is palpable, Harry’s heart singing like a bird in his chest as he sucks in a breath and turns to go back inside.

But there he is.

‘Are you leaving?’ Zayn asks, slipping his hands into the pockets of his trousers.

Harry shakes his head, holding his breath as he waits for him to launch into whatever speech he’s been rehearsing for the last seven years. But he just looks at him and when Harry looks back, he realises that he’s waiting for _him_ to say something. _This is it_ , he tells himself. _This is it. Say something_. But he doesn’t have a fucking clue what to say. There’s no window to draw and heart onto, no Sinatra to serenade them.

He just has to say it.

‘I’m sorry,’ Harry says, mirroring him and putting his hands in his pockets as well.

‘For what?’

‘For everything. Everything I did, everything I said.’

‘Okay.’

It’s not enough, not nearly enough, but where does he start?

It’s like looking out at an ocean and trying to focus on a drop.

‘Remember what you told me about Qadar?’ Harry says suddenly, the memory sliding into his head from nowhere, like an envelope falling through a letterbox. Zayn’s shoulders tense when he says it and Harry almost stops, terrified that he’s about to fuck everything up again.

But everything is already fucked.

‘Whatever befalls me could not have missed me,’ Harry says carefully like he’s scared of burning his tongue. ‘and whatever misses me could not have befallen me, right?’

‘Yeah,’ Zayn says warily.

‘You probably wish that I had missed you, but I didn’t and now here we are again.’

‘Are you saying that Allah wants us to be together?’

‘No.’ Harry blushes. ‘Of course not. I mean. I mean I don’t know what I mean.’

He groans, covering his face with his hands.

This isn’t quite the big romantic speech he’d hoped it would be.

‘How are you still _so bad_ at this, Harry.’

He laughs, taking his hands away from his face and smiling ruefully. ‘I just,’ he starts to say then stops, wondering if he should quit while he’s ahead.

‘You just?’ Zayn pushes and this is it, Harry knows. This is the moment when he can just smile and wish him well, which is what he should probably do, or give it one last shot.

_Fuck it_ , he thinks, taking a deep breath.

‘Okay so I was at the doctor last week-’

‘If this is anything to do with phlegm,’ Zayn interrupts, pointing at him.

‘Of course not!’ Harry almost bites his finger. ‘I was just going to say that while I was in the waiting room I read an article about how our bodies regenerate themselves. Apparently, every seven years, every cell in our bodies dies and is replaced with new ones.’

Zayn doesn’t look any more reassured.

‘Okay. That sounds a bit weird,’ Harry concedes, tilting his head from side to side. ‘But I don’t know how else to tell you that I’ve changed. There’s not a bit of me that you still know, Zayn. Not a cell, a strand of hair, nothing. I am someone else, inside and out.’

‘Okay,’ Zayn says, eyeing him as it to say, _Where are you going with this?_

Where is he going?

Into a brick wall, probably.

But he persists.

‘You’re the only part of me that hasn’t changed.’ Harry hears Zayn’s breath catch in his throat and it’s enough to convince him to keep going. ‘You’re the only thing my heart still remembers.’ Harry raises his arm to touch the nape of his neck. ‘My heart and the hair on the back of my neck and my hands.’ He holds them out to show him how much they’re shaking. ‘I know how crazy that sounds,’ Harry says with a small smile. ‘And I know I fucked everything up – _I know I did_ – but this me hasn’t even met you and it knows. Look.’

Zayn looks down at his hands, then up at him.

‘I’m not asking you to give me another chance,’ Harry puts his arms down, ‘because I know we’re way beyond that. But if there’s any part of you that remembers me too, then.’

‘ _Then_ what, Harry?’

_Then do something_ , Harry wants to yell. But he doesn’t and Zayn doesn’t do anything, so Harry nods and turns away. But before he can, Zayn reaches for Harry’s hand and presses it to his chest until Harry feels the familiar flutter of his heart and he smiles because it’s better than a breathless speech, better than a heart on a window.

It’s all he needs to hear.

 

+++

 

They never do get that 4x4. They do get a dog, though, a rescue called Mabel who’s part Border Collie, part marshmallow. She has one eye and a penchant for jumping in lakes, usually when she’s alone with Zayn and he’s forced to wade in and heave her out. And they do head down to the coast whenever they can. They rent the same cottage every time, the white washed one by the cliffs that always smells of sea salt and firewood. Harry stands in the kitchen sometimes, watching Zayn and Mabel on the beach, laughing guiltily when Zayn has to go into the sea to rescue her tennis ball while she runs back and forth, barking hysterically. He’s always in a foul mood when he comes back, the bottoms of his jeans soaked and his fingers frozen as Mabel trots in, her tail wagging at Harry as if to say, _I had the best time, Dad_.

He can’t believe it sometimes, when she’s curled up at the bottom of their bed and Jas is between them, her fury head on Harry’s pillow and her paw on Zayn’s cheek, that this is his life now, that he had to lose everything so he could get it back. And to think, none of this would have happened if it hadn’t been for that watermelon.

 

 

 

_FIN_

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So that's it. I told you to trust me. Seriously though, thank you for being so patient, especially sweet Jasmine who was supposed to get this for Christmas. I'M SO EMBARRASSED. I hope it was worth the wait, darling. Thanks also to Kristin and Grace for being brilliant betas and Camie for her gorgeous artwork. Finally, thank you to everyone who has read and commented on this, whether here or on tumblr. I hope you know how much it means to me. Much love - Ivy xx


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